Beyond The Shadows
by Baniac
Summary: This is the sequel to my Bane origins saga, Risen From Darkness. Beyond The Shadows follows Bane and Talia from their training days in the League of Shadows through the events of The Dark Knight Rises.
1. Chapter 1

**Beyond The Shadows**

**One**

Within seconds of the mask closing over his mouth and nose, Bane panicked. He could not breathe, and the world closed in upon him, as if he were back in the pit prison and the shaft were collapsing over him.

"Get it off!" he cried, scrabbling with his fingers to find the fasteners where the mask wrapped around the back of his head.

"Wait," Choden, his medical attendant, insisted, attempting to block Bane's efforts. "Breathe. Breathe and relax."

"I can't breathe! Take it off!"

"You're hurting him!" Talia's shrill voice added to the confusion in the room. The ten-year-old tried to pull away from her father, who stood watching, but Henri Ducard's large hands upon her shoulders held her in place. "Choden, stop! Take it off!"

At last Bane dislodged the mask, which Choden had not been able to completely secure due to his patient's struggles. Bane batted it from his face, and as it fell beside him on his bed, he jumped to his feet, shoved away from Choden, and stood with his back to the near wall, facing his tormentor, gasping through the wreckage of his mutilated face. Even though he was dosed with morphine, sharp pain still found its way through the drug's defense. Talia broke free from her father—or perhaps Ducard released her—and she ran to Bane, throwing her arms around his waist and staring defiantly, protectively over her shoulder at Choden. The Tibetan attendant sighed and shook his head.

"Bane," Ducard said in his usual placid tone, stepping forward to pick up the mask. "A claustrophobic reaction is expected, but you must face your fear and conquer it quickly or this—" he held up the mask, "—cannot help you. And without this, you have no hope of a fully functioning existence. You've refused surgery; this is your only option now."

As he listened to Ducard, Bane forcibly slowed his breathing, closed his eyes momentarily, nodded in resignation. Yet his heart still hammered against his chest; no doubt Talia could hear it from where she pressed against him. He briefly, appreciatively returned her embrace, gaining strength from her touch, one hand stroking her new growth of hair—dark and soft, like her mother's hair had been. He hated for her to see him with his bandages off and his injuries thus laid bare—his nose in ruin, having nearly been severed from his face, deep lacerations that were still healing, some that refused to knit, his torn lips giving him a permanent, gruesome grimace that revealed several missing teeth; all the result of a horrendous beating suffered at the hands of fellow inmates when he had fought to keep them away from Talia on the day of her escape.

"I'm sorry, Choden," Bane said, embarrassed now by his display of weakness and fear.

His ever-tolerant attendant bowed with understanding. "You needed to prepare yourself better," Choden said. "I warned you. You were too eager for this to work, too sure of your own abilities. Humility is a valuable virtue, my friend, one you would do well to learn. Now come…sit back down."

"You don't have to, _habibi_," Talia said defensively. "Why don't you wait to try it on tomorrow?" She gave Choden a chilly, challenging glance.

Bane had noticed a change in Talia ever since word had arrived that the prototype mask was finished and would soon be delivered to their refuge high in the Himilayas. He had expected her to be excited and anxious, as he had been, but instead she had grown quiet and thoughtful. Now, looking into her large blue eyes, he realized that she was afraid, afraid that the mask would enable him to regain some semblance of his old self and then that would lead to him leaving her to find his own way in the world, a world that was virtually unknown to the two of them after spending all of their young lives unjustly incarcerated in an underground prison until two months ago.

"Talia," Ducard said. "It is Bane's decision to make."

"It's all right, _habibati_," Bane assured, gently taking her by the shoulders and urging her back from him. "I should try again. Choden and your father are right."

She frowned with worry and held his hand, all the while bravely refusing to look away from the ruination of his face. He knew that seeing him without his bandages caused Talia as much emotional pain as they caused him physical pain because she blamed herself for what had happened to him, no matter how many times he insisted she abandon her guilt. So the sooner he allowed the mask to hide these marks from her, the better.

She continued to hold his hand as he returned to the bed where she then sat close beside him, all the while keeping her attention upon him. Ever since Talia's father had rescued him from the pit prison following his daughter's escape, the paradigm of their relationship had shifted—Bane was no longer Talia's protector; instead, Talia guarded him with the ferocious tenacity of a lioness, whether it was from Choden's medical ministrations or from her father's persistent encouragement for Bane's return to physical activity. Sometimes her behavior amused Bane; other times it mortified him. After nurturing her since the day of her birth—and as sole caregiver after her mother's murder when Talia's was five—Bane found nothing as frustrating as knowing that he was now incapable of continuing his role, a role that had given him true purpose in life.

Talia's insistence on being with Bane whenever he was subjected to challenges, such as the fitting of this mask, was not always favored by Ducard. Though Ducard was sympathetic to Bane's physical trials, he was also a man of great personal fortitude, as were all of the men under his command, and though Talia was merely a child, Ducard expected a certain amount of strength from his daughter as well. Sometimes Bane wondered if Ducard wished his offspring were a boy, not out of any disdain for the so-called weaker sex but because of the type of life he led, a life that was still primarily a mystery to Bane but one that was most assuredly different from the lives led by so many the world over. Everything about Ducard and the men who lived here at this converted monastery and those who came and went was shrouded in secrecy. Occasionally Bane gathered enough nerve to ask veiled questions of his guardian, but usually the cryptic responses he received subtly warned him not to delve too deeply. Yet Bane also sensed that a part of Ducard wanted to open at least part of his world to Bane, perhaps the way he would share his life if he had a son of his own. It was in those moments that Bane wanted nothing more than to earn Ducard's esteem…and perhaps eventually his love.

Choden was saying, "This time you must keep your eyes closed, Bane, until I tell you to open them, yes?"

Bane nodded then shut his eyes. Talia squeezed his hand to bolster him and remind him that, although he could not see her, she would remain there for him.

"Breathe deeply," Choden droned. "In through your nose…out through your mouth, using your diaphragm always. Yes…that's it. Feel the air lift and expand your chest. Then release and feel the energy flow down into your arms, your fingers, your legs, and your feet, relaxing every muscle as it goes. Imagine yourself outside in the open, the sky blue and wide, the mountains strong and bright. You have no fear."

As Choden coached him, he carefully placed the mask once again, gently at first, then tighter, closer as he adjusted the straps that ran alongside Bane's cheekbones and jaw, then fastened them at the back of Bane's head, which was shaved to ensure the mask's snug fit.

"Now," Choden continued, "keeping your eyes closed, feel the mask. Feel it conform to your face, feel it become a part of you, feel it assist your breathing. Breathe…continue to breathe deeply." He tapped the small chamber at the back of the apparatus, and a small hiss sounded, followed by an influx of vapor, very fine, soothing like a light breeze, moist at first, then the moisture faded. The inhalant filled Bane's senses, momentarily overpowering him, and fear returned, trying to convince him that what he was inhaling would harm, not help, him.

But just before panic could take over and force his eyes open, Bane heard Ducard's smooth, throaty voice, close, as if he stood just over Choden's shoulder: "Don't fight it, Bane. Draw it deep within you. Relax and allow it, welcome it."

Talia still held onto him. With one finger, she gently stroked the back of his hand, ever so lightly, like a feather. This, along with Ducard's strong presence, succeeded in pushing back Bane's terror. The compound expelled by the mask seemed to stabilize, no longer overwhelming him. His quickened pulse began to slow, the sound of his respiration no longer wheezing through the mask's ports.

"Good," Ducard murmured with satisfaction. "You must make yourself stronger than your fear. You must control it, and once you are able to do that, it can become your ally."

The concept Ducard presented was not foreign to Bane, not after surviving twenty-five years in prison. Though he had been the youngest male prisoner, he had been feared by many for both his physical strength and his superior intellect…and he had used those assets to his advantage, for his own sake as well as for the sake of Talia and her mother, Melisande.

Choden quietly said, "Open your eyes now. Slowly. Look only at me."

Still cautious, Bane obeyed, first simply cracking his eyelids open as slits. Choden stared back at him, strength in his dark gaze, a strength he tried to bestow upon Bane. Talia's grip tightened upon his hand, and he knew she was holding her breath. He opened his eyes further, saw that Ducard was indeed standing at Choden's right shoulder. Ducard's gray gaze held none of the uncertainty that Bane felt, and from this Bane drew inspiration.

The pale, hard plastic molding of the upper part of the mask easily invaded Bane's field of vision, but he forced himself not to focus upon it. Instead he continued to hold Ducard's stare. Ducard was not a man prone to effusive facial expressions, but now he allowed a pleased smile.

"How do you feel?" Ducard asked.

Since the attack, Bane had received morphine through injections and IVs. Today, before Choden had attempted to fit Bane's mask, the IV had been disconnected. Bane credited that as being part of the cause for his panic, not simply because stopping the drug would allow the agony to return but because, after weeks of being a slave to the opiate, he knew stopping it would bring its own torture. Yet he had reminded himself that the purpose of removing the IV was to test the mask's ability to administer its own concentrated painkiller and that he would not be deprived of his usual dosage for more than the few minutes Choden expected the fitting to take.

Now, following Ducard's question, Bane focused upon his pain, realized it was not as severe as a moment ago.

"Try to breathe normally now," Choden said.

Bane allowed himself to look at Talia. To his great relief, she showed no sign of revulsion at his strange new visage. Instead she appeared keenly interested, chewing on her bottom lip as she often did when anxious.

"Is the medicine working?" she asked hopefully.

Bane nodded, though in truth the pain—while lessened—certainly was not completely eradicated. But at that moment he was happy to lie in order to erase her worry.

"Try to speak," Ducard encouraged.

Feeling foolish, Bane said, "What should I say?" His speech was already distorted by the damage to his mouth, and the mask muffled the sound so that his words were even more indistinct now, disappointing him.

"Hmm," Choden pondered with a glance up at Ducard.

"Do not be discouraged," Ducard told Bane. "The doctor expects this to be trial and error, as I've told you before. You will wear it for a couple of weeks, then I will let him know what needs to be improved. Be patient, my boy."

"I'm sure you'll get used to it," Talia said, though poorly disguising her concerns.

Bane nodded, hoping he was convincing. "How much of a supply does it hold?" he asked Ducard and Choden.

"Unfortunately only a couple of hours," Ducard replied. "The doctor is trying to improve the drug's performance. Again, trial and error. I'm sorry I cannot offer you more than that."

"I understand. And I appreciate everything you have done for me."

Ducard stepped closer and briefly touched his shoulder with that same indulgent smile. "I know you do. Now I must be on my way. As I explained to Talia this morning, I will be gone for a week to attend to an urgent matter. And," he added with a glint of pleasure in his eye, "by the time I return I believe I will have news of your grandfather. By then, if the mask is serviceable and you are able to tolerate it, you will be able to travel with me to meet him."

The prospect of finally being able to mete out justice for what Thomas Dorrance had done to his mother and thus to Bane himself allowed him to momentarily forget the discomfort of the mask.

"I will be ready," Bane promised.


	2. Chapter 2

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Two**

Bane stood on one of the catwalks above the dojo, watching with keen interest as two men engaged each other below. The smaller fighter—a Mongol named Temujin—was a friend of Bane's who had been liberated from prison with him. Each man was stripped to the waist, wearing only loose-fitting pants that gathered near the ankles. Their weapons were single rods of short, stout wood, which they wielded with blinding speed, their lithe bodies in constant motion, shining with sweat. Sometimes they used both hands to strike with their weapon, other times only one. Rarely did they connect, however, for each man was highly skilled in defending himself.

Other men stood along the catwalks at various levels above, silently watching, most wearing the impassive expression that was so common here. It was an expression not altogether unfamiliar to Bane; after all, in prison any show of emotion could be dissected for weakness, and thus many had chosen to go about their lives with little more than the occasional scowl. Not so with Bane or Talia, however, for they had each other for distraction, whether playing games of checkers or backgammon, reading aloud to one another, or any of the myriad other ways in which they had entertained themselves. Somehow they had always found reasons to laugh, whether at each other or sometimes with one of their few trusted comrades, such as Temujin.

With admiration, Bane watched the Mongol fend off a sharp attack by his opponent. For a moment it appeared that Temujin might be defeated as the other man drove him back toward the edge of the mat with a flurry of blows. The Mongol somehow managed to parry each attempt, the whole thing appearing more as a choreographed dance than a battle. Bane harkened back to the bare-fisted fights in prison, some arranged bouts, others spontaneous acts of violence—brutal, straightforward clashes; nothing like this display of balance, grace, and fluidity. The crack of the rods striking together had a steady rhythm, almost musical to Bane, exciting.

Just as Temujin's opponent made what he no doubt thought would be a winning thrust for Temujin's belly, the Mongol melted away and in one smooth move somehow found space enough between his adversary's legs to slide through on his knees, coming instantly to his feet behind his foe. With a single move that Bane could barely follow for its speed, Temujin forsook his weapon and instead took the man's feet out from under him with a combination of one braced leg and a forceful sideways blow with one arm.

Bane found himself the only one applauding Temujin's victory. The others simply nodded or murmured their approval to one another while the combatants brought their hands together in front of their chests and exchanged bows. Realizing his lapse, Bane sheepishly crossed his arms. Temujin looked up at him and allowed a small grin. Then he climbed the nearest stairs to join Bane just as Talia hurried toward them.

"I missed it, didn't I?" she called. "Oh, I missed it. It's all Sangye's fault," she continued as she came along the walkway toward them.

"Blaming your tutor again for your own lack of concentration, are you?" Temujin teased.

"Am not," she insisted. "He kept going on and on about the Dalai Lama, as if he hasn't already taught me everything about him." She rolled her eyes, then smiled up at Bane. "Have you been wearing your mask all morning?"

"Yes."

"It seems," Temujin said, "that you are becoming more accustom to it, yes?"

Bane nodded, hiding the misgivings and struggles he was still having while wearing the apparatus.

"Wait until Papa hears," Talia chirped. "He's due back today, isn't he, Jin?"

"Yes, little one," the Mongol assured. "Perhaps this afternoon."

Bane's attention was on the dojo below them, his thoughts still upon the bout. "I want to learn how to fight like that," he said to Temujin.

"In time…once you are feeling more like your old self," the Mongol assured.

Bane secretly feared that would never happen. "Will you teach me?"

Temujin laughed. "No, my young friend. I could, but that would be a disservice to you, for there are others far more skilled than I who will teach you. That is, if Ducard allows you to stay. Have you discussed this with him?"

"No, not yet."

"What about your plans to be reunited with your father?"

Now Talia studied Bane, eager and anxious to hear his response.

"First I have to find him," Bane said.

Temujin grinned knowingly. "Ducard will find him, have no fear of that."

Bane hesitated, his frown pulling at the tightly fitted mask. "You know Ducard so much better than I do, Jin. Do you think he _would_ let me stay here?"

Temujin considered him with a low grunt. "I never pretend to know what Henri Ducard is thinking, nor would I ever be foolish enough to assume."

"Of course he will let you stay, _habibi_," Talia said, using the Arabic term of endearment that she had learned in prison, a place where Arabic had been the most common language. Momentarily she took his hand and swung it to and fro. Her tone, however, could not hide her doubts from someone who knew her as intimately as did Bane, but he chose not to comment upon what he sensed, at least to her, for such uncertainty would hurt her feelings. She did, after all, idolize her father, and in that Bane could not blame her. He could only hope that his own father possessed such shining parts.

Temujin briefly patted Bane's shoulder and, with a glance at Talia, winked. "Well, my young bull, if Ducard were to deny you, rest assured that he would rue the day."

#

Alone in the quiet dojo, Bane battered the heavy punching bag with a withering flurry of bare-fisted blows, ignoring the discomfort it caused his right wrist. He had fractured the joint many years ago when he had made his second attempt to climb out of the pit prison, a treacherous effort up the face of a five-hundred-foot vertical stone shaft. Since then the wrist often pained him. Today he had tightly wrapped it in support bandages while he worked out.

Although Bane was not strong enough yet to train with any of the other men, since acquiring the prototype mask he spent as much time as he could tolerate here on his own, sparring with the bag or lifting weights. Such equipment, however, was minimal here, for these men learned combat not through brute strength but through a variety of martial arts that used balance, quickness, and flexibility, coupled with the ability to use their wits as a weapon. He spent hours watching the men train, fascinated by all he saw, eager to master such skills. But could he do so when he was so much taller than these mysterious warriors?

"Look at Ducard," Temujin had said when Bane had once voiced his concerns to him. "He is bigger than you in every way, but I promise you, he can defeat every man here. True enough, in most men, a slighter build would be preferred for this art form, but Ducard is the exception to the rule." Temujin grinned. "An exceptional man indeed." And Temujin, of course, spoke with authority, for he had lived with Ducard and his men two years ago, before leaving their organization to pursue his wife's murderers.

Bane danced around the bag on bare feet, his guard up. His breath rasped through the mask. The apparatus did not perform well while he was exerting himself. Obviously the doctor who had designed it had expected the wearer to be satisfied with merely being able to receive the mask's medicinal qualities while hiding the heinous deformities.

Considering his damaged body, Bane's blows came harder, swinging the bag, causing it to tremble. Flashbacks struck him then, as they had ever since he had been attacked, most often during sleep, but regularly at other times as well, especially when he sparred with the bag…flashes of the prisoners who had attacked him… There had been so many, all around, suffocating him, pressing against him so tightly that there was no room for punches, only tearing, ripping, pounding, clawing hands, hands that restrained Bane's arms, leaving him vulnerable. But by then he had not struggled against them; he had fought long and hard enough up until then—Talia had escaped beyond their reach, climbing the shaft, her small form safely above him, looking back long enough to read the farewell that fell from his lips before the inmates overpowered him, crushed him beneath their sheer weight of numbers. He remembered nothing after that except agony.

Talia blamed herself because it was from her own mouth that the prison population had learned of her true gender, so carefully hidden for ten years from all but her mother, Bane, and the prison doctor. But it had been a mere slip of the tongue in a moment of anger, one—Bane assured her—that he or her mother might have been guilty of allowing. Yet no matter how many times Bane tried to convince Talia of her innocence, she insisted that much stronger about her guilt and the price he had paid for her lapse. She had done so again a week ago, on the first night of her father's absence, when Bane had awoken with an outcry from one of the nightmares and she had rushed to his bedside to comfort him. Since then, she had snuck into his room every night after the monastery fell into nighttime silence. In prison, they had shared a cell after Melisande's murder, and since being freed neither had found it easy to sleep without the other's presence. And though Ducard understood the psychology behind their physical bond, he insisted to his daughter that continuing to share a grown man's bed was not acceptable behavior for a child, especially a female child. Of course, his words had met with spirited resistance, but Ducard's rare flash of anger quickly cowed his daughter. She had sulked for a day, but no more, cautioned against such behavior by Bane. He could not, however, find the resolve to deny her access when she snuggled into his arms these past nights, affording him a few hours of rare, restful slumber.

As Bane finished his final burst of punches to the bag, he could feel the pain in his face and jaw rising up. The mask's tiny canister would soon be empty. He needed to return to his room and either remove the mask and inject himself with morphine or at least replenish the canister with its crystalized opiate. Bane frowned. Over the past week, he had worked doggedly to wear and accept the mask, no matter how uncomfortable or unnerving, especially at first. He needed to be ready to leave once his grandfather had been located.

"There you are." Choden's voice turned Bane. "I should have known I would find you here, taking out your frustrations on that poor, defenseless bag."

Bane reached for a nearby towel to mop the sweat from his face. If he had been able to, he would have grinned at Choden's remark. Such drollness from the stoic fellow had been rare up until the past couple of weeks, but now he would occasionally take Bane by surprise with some witticism or a bit of dry humor, though usually when Ducard was absent.

"I have something for you," Choden continued. From behind his back, he produced what appeared to be some sort of broad belt, made of thick, stiff material with formidable straps and buckles. He held it up, smiling, as Bane drew near.

Bane draped the towel over his shoulder. "What is it?"

"It is a support belt for your back. I made it myself." Pride brightened his smile.

Bane took the item, examining it. It was made of Kevlar, a fascinatingly strong material that Ducard had first introduced to him. Straps threaded through fabric channels, connecting from back to front with various buckets and fasteners that could be adjusted for the correct fit. The rear portion was rigid, reinforced by thick leather with the right side a bit wider to offer a larger field of support to his weaker side. Some sort of metal plate within, secured with large rivets, provided the rigidity necessary to limit his movement.

"You have lost weight and muscle over these weeks," Choden said. "As you build yourself back up, the brace can be adjusted to accommodate the changes."

"Thank you."

"Try it on," the Tibetan urged. "Let us see how it fits you. Yes…just like that so it sits low. Now…" Like a fussing hen, Choden gently pushed away Bane's hands and adjusted the straps, tightening them until it was impossible to slip a finger in between the brace and Bane's bare flesh. Then he stepped back to study his work, circling Bane with a thoughtful finger upon his chin. "Yes…not bad, not bad. Now, slowly bend…see if it restricts you where it needs to. Good…now slowly try to rotate left then right."

Carefully Bane tried various movements. Though the restriction was regrettable, he immediately noticed a comfort to his back; his muscles felt as if they could rest, the dull ache in his lumbar region easing. The leather used on the inside of the brace, against his skin, was softer than the outside and padded enough to temper the foreign, constricting nature of the brace.

"It helps," he said.

Choden's smile broadened. "Good…good. You should wear it as much as possible during the day, especially when exercising or lifting, but do not rely on it. You still need to strengthen yourself. The brace is to help you, not something to depend solely upon. Now that you have your mask and this, I think you will progress quickly, as the young usually do."

"Thank you, Choden."

Unexpected emotion rang in his voice, and it appeared to fluster Choden who waved a hand dismissively and stammered a few self-deprecating words. Unwittingly Bane thought of Doctor Assad back in the pit prison, the one inmate spared from Henri Ducard's purge. Assad had been Bane's particular friend for many years in prison and had taught Bane everything he could about practicing medicine and pharmaceuticals. But Bane had been unable to forgive Assad for one tragic mistake—Assad had forgotten to lock Melisande's cell door one day, an accident that led to Melisande's brutal rape and murder by the prisoners…and to Assad's continued life sentence in the pit. Only their former friendship and Assad's beneficent treatment of Talia saved the physician from suffering the same fate as the rest of the prison population. Perhaps, even now, Assad was dead, either from his drug addiction or from the effluvia from the multitude of corpses left behind by Ducard's men. Of course their jailers would have eventually discovered the holocaust and removed the bodies and no doubt repopulated the prison with the region's ever-abundant criminal element. Talia had protested Bane's exclusion of Assad from those liberated—Temujin and three others who had helped them in various ways—but she could convince neither Bane nor her father to reconsider.

Since Bane had come to Ducard's mountain base, Choden had been his medical attendant, seeing to all his physical needs—changing dressings and bandages, administering and monitoring his medicines as well as his nutrition, which until the past two weeks had been strictly intravenous. And while neither man tried to probe into the other's personal life, a certain bond had formed between them because of Choden's solicitude and Bane's determination to recover, a bond of respect and gratitude.

"Well," the unexpected voice of Henri Ducard startled both men, "what have we here?"

Bane turned to find Ducard emerging from the shadows created by the walkway above him. He was dressed still in warm clothes, as if having just come in from outside, his fur-lined coat opened, his hands lightly gripping the lapels. His smile was small but amused, his ears glowing red from the cold outside.

Choden stepped back from Bane, gestured. "Bane approves of my work."

"As well he should," Ducard said, casually circling Bane to study the brace as he removed his coat.

"How was your journey?" Bane asked, trying to temper his eagerness to hear if Ducard had located Thomas Dorrance.

"Productive, my boy. Very productive." Ducard handed his coat to Choden, who bowed and left them alone. "Did my daughter behave herself in my absence? No sneaking out to the glacier, I trust?"

Bane smiled at the thought of Talia's many mischievous adventures, several of which she tried to coerce him into joining. "Not that I'm aware, sir."

"Good." Ducard gestured to a nearby bench where they settled, and the lightheartedness drifted away. His eyes took on a steely quality. "Your grandfather was located in Cyprus. He has been living there for the past five years."

"Can we get to him?"

"My men in that region have already extracted him. He is being taken to Jaipur. That is not far from the pit prison."

"Extracted him? You mean he did not come willingly?"

"He did not."

"Your men gave him my letter?"

"Of course."

Bane tried to hide his disappointment, knowing such an emotion was counterintuitive, considering what he had planned for his grandfather. Yet somewhere deep inside he had hoped that his blood relative might have come to regret what he had done and perhaps would offer to assist his grandchild as a way to make amends. No, Bane reminded himself, nothing Thomas Dorrance could do could ever make amends for what he had perpetrated; he was just as guilty of killing Bane's mother as the pneumonia that had claimed her life in prison.

Ducard's large hand rested on Bane's shoulder, drawing Bane's gaze back to him. "He denies your paternity, of course. He thinks you are merely someone hoping to blackmail Edmund Dorrance or ruin his career."

"His career?"

"Yes, your father is a diplomat for Great Britain, just as your grandfather was."

This news settled slowly into Bane as he recalled bits and pieces of what his mother had told him over twelve years ago…another lifetime...two lifetimes really—his thirteen years as her child, then twelve years on his own before this new life above ground.

"It doesn't make sense," Bane said. "My mother said Father didn't want to work for the government. It was one of the things, besides their relationship, that infuriated my grandfather. He wanted his son to follow in his footsteps, to become involved in politics."

"Well, it does not appear your father advanced beyond the diplomatic service. Perhaps in rejecting politics he had a way to defy his father. Difficult to say, of course. Perhaps you will be able to discover the truth from your father yourself." He hesitated. "How did your parents meet, Bane?"

"My mother's father was a diplomat, too, so he knew Thomas Dorrance; that's how my parents first met—when they attended school while living at the embassy in Tel Aviv. But it wasn't until they were in their twenties that they saw one another again and fell in love. That was when they were stationed in Riyadh. When her father was murdered, whoever was behind it also gained access to his money, so my mother was left with very little, and she had no family to turn to. Thomas Dorrance took her on as a secretary. He didn't know about her being in love with his son; they kept their relationship from him because my father knew he wouldn't approve; my grandfather considered my mother beneath his station, like she wasn't worthy of his son. By then he had arranged for his son to marry the daughter of some sheikh. Mother said it was all about money and politics."

"As is the way of the world," Ducard nodded sagely with barely veiled contempt.

"My father refused to be manipulated, so he told his father about being in love with my mother. Of course, that infuriated my grandfather. That's why my mother always suspected that he was behind her kidnapping. She believed it was either his doing or that of the sheikh's or perhaps both of them. That's how she ended up in the pit. The men who left her there told her no one would ever look for her because everyone would think she had been killed in a fiery car crash, her body burned beyond recognition. Such a thing would be staged to make the story believable."

Ducard frowned. "I'm sorry, Bane. But at least now justice will be served, and how fitting that it should be by your own hand."

Trying to hide his uneasiness about venturing back into the world of light, Bane asked, "Will you be with me?"

"I can be, yes."

Bane nodded, glad that the mask at least partially hid his expression of relief. "So you know where my father is, too, then?"

"He is at the consulate in Riyadh."

Bane swallowed. "Did he…did he marry?"

"Yes, he married the woman your father had chosen for him."

His father's inability to resist his own father's will disappointed Bane. Yet, Bane chided himself, what else could he have done, thinking that the love of his life was dead? Perhaps grief had robbed him of all hope for love—the way Bane had felt after Melisande's death—and in despair he had succumbed to his father's will. Maybe he had even learned to love that Saudi woman…had children with her…Bane's half-siblings…

"Are they…are they still married?"

"Yes."

Another hesitation, and he appreciated the fact that Ducard allowed him to ask, that he did not simply blurt all of the information but instead waited to see if Bane wanted the whole truth.

"Did they have any children?"

"Yes. A son and a daughter. They are grown now, just a little younger than you."

"Where do they live?"

"The son is in Dubai. The daughter lives in London."

Bane nodded, staring vacantly at the punching bag.

"Do you still wish to meet your father?" Ducard quietly asked.

"Yes…I must. I promised my mother that I would find him and tell him the truth."

"And you still wish to see your grandfather first? It would be best if you do. His disappearance, of course, has raised some alarm. Authorities will be looking for him. While I am confident in the security of his location, there is still a remote chance—"

"I will see him first," Bane said in a dull voice, still unable to meet Ducard's gaze. "I won't take any chances that he could slip away."

"Very well. If you are confident enough in your mask's ability to allow you to function away from here, then we shall leave in the morning."

Bane nodded. His fingers twitched in their habitual, anticipatory way. "Yes," he said, "I am ready."


	3. Chapter 3

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Three**

Although Bane wore darkened snow goggles, he still squinted against the sunlight bouncing off the surrounding snow-stark mountainsides. He wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to natural light. Or were his eyes permanently flawed after so many years underground?

He stood just outside the monastery, dwarfed by the sprawling structure which had been built against the leeward side of a mountain. The monastery had a cobbled look, revealing its growth over the years from one central, humble building to a complex constructed in stages, all made of wood, somehow anchored into the rock facings. A marvel of engineering that even now fascinated Bane in both interior and exterior, though his sojourns outside had been few. Now, with his mask delivered, perhaps he would be able to grow more familiar with his outdoor environment…if he returned here.

He eased his pack to the snowy ground and unzipped his parka to adjust the brace Choden had made. Once satisfied, he zipped the coat up and leaned back against a stanchion to one side of the main entrance to wait. His gloved fingers twitched. Such a foreign feeling to wear layers of heavy clothing. He felt restricted, uneasy. Too warm. He partially unzipped the parka, his blood still thick from years of living in the chill of the pit. The mountain cold did not bother him at all, but he knew unbearable, dry heat awaited him in Jaipur. Could he tolerate the mask in such hot, dusty conditions? Would the apparatus still function properly?

"I'm ready!" Talia's voice shrilled, the sound of the heavy door thudding behind her words.

She tramped resolutely toward him, wearing a parka with the fur-lined hood pushed back from her shining face, a small bundle slung over one shoulder, her boots leaving tracks so much smaller next to his. When she stood before Bane, she beamed up at him and tossed her bundle down next to his pack.

"Talia." His muffled voice could not hide his scolding tone. "What are you doing? You know you can't come."

"Yes, I can."

"We've already gone over this. Your father said no, and rightly so; this journey isn't for a child to make."

"But I've made it before…when we came here."

"Yes, but that was necessary. This time isn't."

"But I want to go."

"I know you do, little mouse, but you can't."

"You sound like Papa," she grumped.

Bane sighed. "We will be back before you know it. You need to keep up your studies."

"Papa can tutor me on the trip."

"It's too dangerous for you to go."

"Why?"

Bane caught himself. He had not shared his murderous plans with Talia. Although she knew he had killed men in prison, the first had been before her birth, the second when she was only an infant, and the third…well, the third he had never told her about at all. While the murders had been necessary for his survival and hers, the third had troubled him for a long time afterward. Crazy Saul. A harmless old, demented man whose only crime had been knowing Talia's true name, a name that made the truth of her gender plain. To keep Talia's identity hidden, Bane had had no choice but to eliminate the elderly prisoner. What made the deed even more difficult was that Saul had once been key to saving Talia's life when she had fallen gravely ill. It was Saul who had revealed to Bane the name of a prisoner who had been hoarding antibiotics. And if Saul's part in Talia's recovery had not been enough to prod Bane's conscience before and after his murder, then the simple fact that Bane had been the one to unwittingly reveal Talia's true name to the old man made his guilt even harder to bear.

"I'm going back to the prison," Bane divulged, hoping this would deter Talia.

Her eyes widened. "Why?"

"I want my grandfather to see where my mother and I lived."

"But what if you get caught by the men who run the prison? What if they make you stay there?" Fearful, she took hold of his left hand with both of hers, as if to anchor him there forever.

"Your father and his men will keep me safe. But I don't want to put you in that situation. Do you see?"

"But if Papa's there, I would be safe, too."

"We can't take that chance, _habibati_. You must stay here."

"But I want to meet your papa and your grandpapa."

"Maybe you will one day…but not this time."

She took his other hand, and now the stubbornness melted away into desperate sadness as she pleaded, "I don't want you to go; I want us to stay together. It was bad enough when Papa was away, but now you'll both be gone…and Jin, too."

Her mood touched Bane deeply, and he realized everything she had said up until now had been bravado on her part. He crouched in front of her, trying to see her eyes which were now lowered. She sniffed back tears. He tipped up her chin, but still she avoided looking at him.

"Hey," he murmured unsuccessfully. "_Habibati_…you know we'll see each other again. I promise."

"But what about your papa? What if he won't let you come back?"

Bane drew her into his embrace, held her tight. "Nothing and no one could ever keep me from you. Do you hear? No one."

The monastery's heavy door opened again, and Henri Ducard and Temujin emerged. When Ducard saw Talia, his low brow hovered even lower.

"I hope you are here simply to wish us farewell, Talia."

Startled, she stepped back from Bane but held onto his hand. Hastily she swiped her other hand across her eyes and straightened her back. "Please, Papa, can't I come?"

A question instead of a demand, Bane noted. Yes, she was beginning to learn her place.

Ducard held out his hand toward her, beckoned her close. "You already know the answer to that."

Talia returned her gaze to Bane as she said, "But we've never been apart."

"Of course we have," Bane gently reminded. "Remember when I broke my back?"

"Yes, but you didn't have a choice; you had to leave."

"I don't have a choice this time either," he insisted. "Remember, I have a promise to my mother to keep."

Her lips twisted in surrender.

"Now be a good girl and say good-bye to your father."

"Can't _you_ stay here with me, Jin?"

"No, little one. I must keep Bane out of trouble, especially since you will not be along to do it." He offered a soothing grin. "Don't look so glum. The others will keep you entertained while we are gone."

She gave a small, resigned sigh. But before she would go to her father, she gently touched Bane's mask, her index finger sliding in a horizontal line as if to caress his lips, a familiar, endearing gesture that she had bestowed every evening in prison when they bid each other good night. Talia's lack of aversion toward the mask greatly pleased and relieved Bane, made it easier to bear his inability to feel her sweet stroke. Then she gave him a sad smile and shuffled through the snow to her father.

Ducard chuckled at her attempt to make them feel sorry for her. He picked her up with no effort at all and sat her upon his hip, her ever-lengthening hair tousled by the breeze that crept down the mountain.

"I am sorry to leave you so soon after my return. But Bane will be safer if I am with him. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Papa." Absently Talia played with the collar of his parka before looking at him. "You promise to bring him back to me?"

"Of course. You mustn't worry. You must be brave, like your mother was brave. Remember, she is always with you."

Talia nodded, hesitated, then slipped her arms around her father's neck and tightly embraced him.

###

The journey south began necessarily on foot. Bane, while having grown accustomed to the thinner mountain air while at the monastery, found breathing to be a more laborious endeavor when exerting himself in this new way, especially because of the mask. The heavy pack, which included a disassembled assault rifle, wearied his back and shoulders, even with Choden's brace. His weeks of convalescence had much reduced his strength and stamina. But he did not complain, and he allowed help only after stumbling and falling multiple times and thus slowing them down. Ducard and Temujin each took some of the items from Bane's pack to lighten his load, though he insisted that they should not burden themselves.

After a short night of exhausted slumber in shelter tents, the trio pushed on to a village. There Ducard took them to a farm where, concealed in a barn, a vehicle awaited. As Ducard spoke briefly with the farmer and money exchanged hands, Bane climbed into the Land Rover and immediately fell asleep, stretched across the rear seat, using his pack for a pillow.

He awoke a couple of hours later, eager to see more of this new world through which they traveled. The mountains still dominated the landscape, but the lack of snow upon their peaks bespoke of a lower altitude. The road was rough, and he saw few vehicles; those they encountered were old, well-used small trucks. More often he saw carts pulled by rugged, hairy ponies, their drivers equally rugged, casting disinterested glances at the passing Land Rover.

While asleep, Bane had been vaguely aware of conversation between Ducard and Temujin, but the two men had fallen relatively silent. Temujin seemed particularly morose now, and Bane remembered the evening in prison when Temujin had told him the story of how he had come to live in southern Bhutan and of his marriage.

"Are we anywhere near where you used to live, Jin?" he asked.

The Mongol stared through the windshield, grunted. "Yes. About fifty kilometers."

Bane sensed the man had no desire to discuss those days, once idyllic but eventually destroyed by the murder of his wife by mountain bandits. It was his search for her killers that had drawn him away from Henri Ducard's organization, a search that eventually saw three of them dead by Temujin's own hand. The fourth remained at large.

Ducard, too, seemed to perceive Temujin's train of thought. He glanced once at the Mongol before saying, "Don't worry, my friend. Justice will be served for your wife. As I told you, the trail grows warm."

Temujin simply nodded, his countenance dark and closed.

Another show of gratitude from Ducard for Talia's escape from prison, this promise to locate the last bandit, for it was Temujin who had revealed to Talia while in prison the whereabouts of her father. Shortly after he had arrived at the monastery, Bane had learned of Ducard's search for the surviving killer. Temujin claimed it was all that kept him tied to the mountain base, though Bane suspected the Mongol had developed a certain loyalty to him and Talia, something even beyond his friendship with Ducard.

Much later in the day, they crossed the unguarded, remote border into India, leaving the high mountains behind. By nightfall they arrived at an airfield—a single runway where one small plane awaited. When the Land Rover was spotted, the twin engines of the sleek jet whined into life. Bane stared at the aircraft, amazed and excited.

"Did we fly in that when we left the prison?" he asked.

"No," Ducard responded, driving straight onto the airstrip, never slowing the vehicle. "I'm afraid our modes of transportation on that trip were a bit less…luxurious." He glanced sidelong at Temujin with a small, amused smile. The Mongol smiled back, his black mood of earlier in the day having slipped away many miles ago.

The interior of the jet was one of comfort. Soft, tan-colored leather seats, televisions, a full galley…just a few of the amenities available.

Once buckled into his seat (after Temujin explained the purpose of the seatbelt and how to fasten and unfasten it), Bane was startled by the appearance of a young man at his elbow. An Indian, who looked younger than he. Dressed in some sort of uniform.

"A pillow for you, sir?" The attendant's question in English almost strangled at the end when he caught full sight of Bane's mask. The attendant's eyes widened in shock, but he quickly recovered and forced a sickly smile, a small pillow in his hand.

Overcome with unexpected self-consciousness, Bane mumbled, "No," shaking his head in case the attendant could not hear his answer. He stared at his knees.

"If you reach down on the other side of your seat, sir, you will feel the controls. Once we are airborne, you may wish to adjust the seat for your comfort by using those buttons. But please keep your seatback erect for takeoff and landing."

"Th—thank you."

"Once we are at cruising altitude, I will serve dinner for you gentlemen."

Bane glared up at him. Was this boy making game of his debility?

The attendant swallowed, again forced a smile. "Mr. Ducard informed us of your…special nutritional requirements, rest assured." As if eager to be quit of Bane's presence, the attendant turned to Ducard seated across the cabin from Bane, but Ducard was using an onboard telephone, a conversation Bane could not hear over the whir of the engines.

Bane shoved aside his mixture of anger and embarrassment and turned his interest to the window beside his seat. He watched the landscape pass by as they taxied across the tarmac. Then, as the jet sped down the runway, accelerating at a heart-stopping pace, Bane forgot about the attendant's reaction to him and instead marveled at the natural forces pressing him back against the butter-soft seat, a smile trying to form beneath his mask but forcibly banished for the pain it would cause him. Once aloft, he would replenish the mask's drug, but for now he sat still, hands gripping the armrests, his heart racing as the jet lifted skyward, and he tried to believe that he was indeed flying, flying like the distant birds he had envied beyond the mouth of the prison shaft. Perhaps one day he could learn to fly a craft such as this.

After a modest meal, complete with wine, Ducard and Temujin drifted to sleep. Bane, however, could not sleep, no matter how sated by what he had been able to consume—but no wine, not in conjunction with the drugs—for he was too animated. Of course he could take one of the sedatives that he carried with him, but he already despised his need for any medication; he did not want to take anything more than absolutely necessary. He wanted his wits about him as much as possible, to experience and absorb all of the new sights and sounds on this journey.

He wandered about the plane for a few minutes, examining everything he could. When he first left his seat, the attendant appeared from behind a collapsible partition at the front of the cabin to ask if he needed assistance of any kind: Did the young gentleman desire earphones for music or perhaps he wondered where the lavatory was? When Bane insisted he required nothing, he made sure he did not look away from the attendant but instead held his gaze, as if daring the attendant to reveal any revulsion he might be feeling. It pleased Bane when the man averted his own gaze.

Once back in his seat, Bane stared out the window into the darkness where below him a carpet of smoky clouds made it easy to believe the earth had vanished, while above him the black, crystalline sky displayed its constellations in all their glory. So close! Or so it seemed after admiring this same night sky from far beneath the earth's surface. How Melisande would love to see the stars thusly!

At the thought of her, Bane went to an aft compartment where his belongings had been stowed. From his pack, he removed a blanket in which lay the Zastava M70. Carefully he unwrapped the weapon and stowed its pieces back in the pack. The blanket he drew close into his arms, embraced it, shut his eyes, thought of Melisande. She had arrived in prison with the blanket—colorful, fringed, hand-woven with floral patterns as well as diamond shapes and square designs. She had treasured it dearly, for it had been a gift from Henri Ducard. And since her death Bane valued it beyond all things because it had belonged to her.

He returned to his seat with the blanket. A quick glance toward Ducard showed the big man still fast asleep, his seat reclined almost horizontally.

Bane settled back into his chair and reclined enough to relax, still able to see the dark sky with its winking pinpricks of light. For a moment he hesitated, wondering if he should have left the blanket in the pack, afraid that using it now would only remind Ducard that he had it. Thus far, Ducard had not mentioned reclaiming the blanket, but whenever he had come into Bane's room, his gaze touched upon it at least once where it always lay on the bed. Bane figured that Ducard wanted the blanket, the only tangible evidence of Melisande's existence, but Bane could not bring himself to surrender it. He justified its possession by telling himself that Ducard had Talia to memorialize his wife. And, besides, he deserved _something_ lasting for the years of friendship and protection that he had provided for the man's wife and child. A reward. Surely a blanket was a small price for Ducard to pay for all that.

Always handling the blanket with great care, Bane unfolded it and covered himself with it. Of course, he was much too tall for it to reach the length of him; indeed, it draped only from his neck to his knees. But he did not care. Its touch, its warmth made him smile beneath the mask, no matter how much the expression pained him. He only wished the mask did not rob him of feeling the fabric against his face. Though the drug's vapor had very little odor, it still tainted some of the smells that came to him, including the smell of the blanket. Hopefully this could eventually be remedied by the drug's composition being re-engineered.

When he closed his eyes at last, he breathed deeply, tried to remember Melisande's scent from all those years ago as he drew the blanket nearly over the mask. Just before he drifted off, he imagined that she was beside him and, for but a moment, he succeeded in recalling the way she and her blanket had smelled when she had first come to the prison—clean and sweet, like the flowers blooming in the monastery's solarium.


	4. Chapter 4

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Four**

Twenty-five years spent underground had provided Bane with night vision far superior to that of men born above ground. Yet because his surroundings were now so completely foreign to him, everything appeared as a confusing blur as the vehicle sped through one of Jaipur's slums in the dead of night. The dark tinting of the Mitsubishi's side windows further impeded Bane's curious scrutiny. The narrow, rutted streets were nearly deserted. Occasionally the reflective glow from the eyes of cats or dogs flashed in the fall of the vehicle's headlights. Ducard nearly ran over a goat once and had to blare the truck's horn at an indolent cow to get the beast to meander out of their way.

When Ducard finally halted the vehicle, he growled, "Stay here," before quickly departing. In two strides he disappeared into a one-story building. Within two minutes he emerged with two darkly-clad, armed men close behind, flanking a hooded prisoner. All moved with smooth speed except the prisoner—bent over, hands bound behind his back—who walked with a dust-disturbing shuffle, a heavy reluctance. As Ducard climbed back into the driver's seat, one of the armed men jumped in beside Bane while his companion and the prisoner struggled into the rear seat. The idling vehicle lurched into a quick acceleration.

No one spoke; the prisoner attempted to be heard but was muffled, no doubt by a gag beneath the black head cover. The gunman beside the prisoner jabbed him with the barrel of his weapon, snarled in English for him to be silent.

Bane sat, paralyzed, staring at the rear of Temujin's seat. He wanted to turn around and face his grandfather but could not move. There was no point, he reminded himself, not yet anyway. Ducard had instructed him to say nothing to the man until they stopped for the night. British authorities still searched for their missing national, and here in a large city the danger of being intercepted by British or Indian agents was much greater than in the remote reaches beyond Jaipur. And if Bane revealed his identity too early, Thomas Dorrance—if rescued now—would no doubt ensure that Bane ended up right back in prison.

The fingers of Bane's right hand twitched in agitation. Amidst the mixed emotions that battered him, the overwhelming desire to snap the neck of his mother's executioner, his jailer, outweighed all others. But he cautioned himself to stick to the plan, to force his grandfather to see the hell to which he had condemned them. Yet there was a small seed of fear in Bane, fear that once he saw the face of someone of his own flesh and blood, especially one as aged now as Crazy Saul, that his resolve would fail him. Would his grandfather plead for his life or would he be defiant? Although Bane certainly detected fear in the prisoner, the man's outcries against the gag had also revealed anger. Of course a man so used to power and opulence his entire life would find captivity an unthinkable outrage against his lofty rights.

Bane could not help but wonder how different their lives would be if his mother had been allowed to marry Edmund Dorrance, if he had been born into the Dorrances' wealth as an accepted family member. Where would he be now? Would he have gone into government service like his father? Would Thomas Dorrance love and revere his grandson? Ducard had said that his grandfather had denied his claim of paternity. Would he change his mind once he came face to face with his own bloodline? And the mask…would his grandfather view it the way the flight attendant had or would he feel pity? What if, after all Bane would show him in the pit, his grandfather had a change of heart?

Bane's hands balled into fists. No…any man who could do what Thomas Dorrance had done to the woman his own son had loved certainly did not have the capacity or desire to change his heart, to feel pity. _And_, Bane told himself, _neither do I_.

A silent hour and a half later, perhaps around three in the morning, they arrived at a small village, dark and serene except for the stray barking of dogs. The man sitting beside Bane got out first and hurried into a low building made of earthen brick. A moment later a light winked on in one of the front windows, and the man returned, moving to the rear to escort the prisoner inside behind Ducard, Bane, and the others.

An Indian man speaking Hindi greeted Ducard and led the way down a short hall. From behind one closed door that they passed, Bane heard children whispering with concern, reminding him of Talia. Then a woman's soft words silenced the voices.

Their host halted at the end of the hallway and motioned to rooms on either side. Ducard thanked him, then the Indian brushed between the armed men to return to his own room across from where Bane had heard the children.

"Bane, you and Temujin will sleep in this room with me," Ducard said. "The others will be across from us."

As Temujin entered ahead of them, eager for sleep, Bane said to Ducard, "I want to speak with him."

"Would you not prefer to rest first?"

"No."

Ducard nodded to his men, who hustled their prisoner into the adjacent room, then he took Bane's pack from him. "Do you want me to accompany you?"

"There's no need."

"Very well." Ducard hesitated then reminded him, "Tell him nothing about us. Mind yourself; anger can often lead us to divulge things that should be kept hidden. Don't let him trick you into saying what you don't intend to say. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"My men will remain in the room with you. Heed their counsel, if given."

"Yes, sir."

With a tight, sustaining smile, Ducard nodded and left him alone, partially closing the door to his room behind him.

Bane remained in the hallway for a long moment, gathering his courage, tempering his desire for violence, cautioning himself against being swayed by anything the old bastard might tell him in order to save his own skin.

Once in the room he found one of the guards already asleep on a woven mat. The other sat on a separate mat, facing the hooded prisoner. The guard's face—European perhaps—was impassive, never looking away from his charge, who sat in a corner, head bowed as if exhausted. Bane shuffled toward him, faltered, then sank to his haunches in front of his grandfather. He lifted his arm to remove the hood, hesitated, realized his hand was shaking. To hide this weakness, he snatched off the hood.

Thomas Dorrance gave a tiny gasp and squinted in the low lamplight. A thick mane of gray hair bordered his worn face, a face with a tapered chin like Bane's, dramatically arched eyebrows, a long nose, and a beard and mustache that appeared to have been fastidiously groomed prior to captivity, the mustache still bearing some of the man's original light brown hair color. Dorrance blinked in an effort to adjust his vision, then shrank away in revulsion from what he saw before him, agape, faded blue eyes wide.

"Wh—who are you?" Dorrance grimaced. "_What_…are you?"

Bane scowled. "I am what you made me, old man."

His grandfather's initial fear faded quickly as he studied the mask. His eyes were cold, so cold that Bane knew warmth had rarely visited there during his lifetime.

"So," his grandfather spoke with disdain, those eyebrows mocking, "you are the one, aren't you? The one responsible for my kidnapping. Claiming to be my grandson. I have but one grandson and you aren't fit to untie his shoes."

"I _am_ your grandson, though it pains me to say it."

"Prison dregs…that is all you are, boy. A thug looking to extort my family."

"I want nothing from you," Bane growled. "You were brought here for one purpose and one purpose only."

His grandfather tried to hide his surprise at Bane's claim to desire nothing monetary. Of course, Bane reflected, the man knew only of money and power; he could comprehend nothing else.

"In the morning," Bane continued, "we will take you to my home…my mother's home for thirteen years before her death…and as you know it wasn't death in an accident. There was nothing accidental about it, was there?" Bane grabbed the front of his grandfather's shirt, the fabric tightening against the man's shoulders as Bane's fist clenched, his hands no longer trembling. The man's utter spite and selfishness even in the face of captivity and possible death made Bane hate him even more. "She died because of you."

"I had nothing to do with your whore of a mother's death."

Bane's other hand gripped him now, pulled him forward then slammed him back against the wall where he pinned him. The guard continued to look on stoically, gun in hand, as if waiting for Bane's command to shoot their prisoner. Bane shoved his face close to his grandfather, the mask touching the man's nose. The first flare of fear appeared in those frigid eyes.

"If you are such a great and powerful man," Bane sneered, "then why deny what you did? Are you ashamed? Afraid? Well, you should be afraid, you bastard, because you're going to pay for what you did to us. Then I'm going to tell your son what you did to the woman he loved."

His grandfather tried to regain his composure, but Bane could see through the veneer. "My son won't believe you anymore than I do."

"He will believe me once I'm through with him."

The hint of possible violence to his son had more of an effect on Dorrance than Bane had expected. A tightness in his facial muscles betrayed his concern. "Do what you will with me, but leave my son out of this. He knew nothing about your mother's disappearance except what he was told."

"So you admit your hand in her death?"

"Her death? No. Her removal from my son's life—yes. Look at you! What would you know of the real world and how it turns? If your mother had truly cared for Edmund, she would have never taken up with him. She was a selfish girl who needed to be saved after her father's death. She was nothing more than a gold digger. She didn't love my son; she loved his money and the power that would come to him through my efforts."

With fresh fury, Bane drove him against the wall again. "You're a liar! You know nothing about what she felt. She loved him. She died because of him…because of you."

His grandfather's eyes, desperate now, flicked toward the guard, as if searching for rescue.

"She didn't care about your money," Bane continued, reluctantly letting go of the man for fear that he would kill him here and now, before he could make him suffer. "My father didn't care about it either. They loved each other; they wanted to be together. That's all that mattered to them."

"You are a foolish, naïve child," Dorrance said, recovering some of his courage now that he was no longer in Bane's grip. "You believed your mother's fairy tales. Well, I suppose a boy would, in your circumstances. But I know my son. He came to understand the wisdom behind my plans for him. What do you think he will do if you live to tell him your fairy tales? He is married still to the woman whom he wed after your mother was removed from his world, a woman who is deserving of him. One way or another, your mother is dead, and that is all she will be to Edmund—a dead memory. So what purpose is there in telling him about it?"

"He needs to know what you did, what you really are."

Dorrance gave a dry laugh. "My son has no illusions about me, boy."

"Then you shouldn't concern yourself with what I will tell him," Bane said, calling his bluff. "What decent man wouldn't be horrified to learn what you did to her…to us? Or is my father not a decent man? Maybe he is like you now."

"You think my son will believe what you tell him, that he will just accept that a freak like you is indeed his blood, and take you under his wing after all these years? Even with a blood test proving any such connection, he will have nothing to do with you, boy. He would never shame his wife in such a way or admit to her his own foolishness as a youth. No, not to her and certainly not to her father." A small, confident smile brought some life to his visage. "And if her father learns about your claim, rest assured, you masked horror, he will destroy you as quickly as I will."

"We shall see," Bane said, getting to his feet. He stared down at his grandfather. "Enjoy your sleep, old man. It's the last bit of peace you will ever have."


	5. Chapter 5

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Five**

The next morning—a blazing hot dawn shimmering on the horizon—they approached the pit prison with great caution. Half a mile away, Ducard halted the vehicle in the protection of a small canyon and sent one of his men ahead to reconnoiter. The others waited, silent, Thomas Dorrance once again bound, gagged, and hooded but this time sitting next to Bane.

As he waited, Bane grew ever more uneasy yet he did his best to hide his unrest, remaining in the vehicle, though the energy building within him demanded that he pace. He clasped his hands together to keep his fingers still, breathing slow and deep, taking in the drug whose supply he had just replenished in anticipation of the return to his birthplace. Home. Yes, he had once called the prison home, the way normal people would refer to their familial house. After all, he had known nothing else. And if the sad truth be told, it was there among unending hardship that he had experienced his happiest moments in life, for it was within those dark stone walls that he had shared his mother's life and had come to fall in love with Melisande, and it was there that he had first heard Talia's newborn cries. But now…there was nothing there for him, a cold, different world.

He longed for Talia's soothing presence, the joyful, musical sound of her laughter, the beauty of her eyes when she smiled at him. How would she feel about returning to the pit? Would she have more courage than he? Or would her palms be clammy with sweat as his were now? The fear that fought to take hold of him was not simply fear of the pit, of being trapped there once again, but fear of separation from her…and from Henri Ducard and all that he symbolized. And there was still his own father to think of as well as his promise to his mother. Perhaps, Bane considered, he should have gone to his father before bringing his grandfather here.

At last Ducard's man returned to report that no one was in the vicinity of the prison. Not surprising, as Bane had told them, for the only time anyone came to the mouth of the shaft was when a new prisoner arrived or when the prison was resupplied roughly every other month. Considering that Ducard and his assassins had killed every prisoner except Doctor Assad a little over two months ago when they had rescued Bane, the pit no doubt had a small population, for that limited amount of time would not have allowed for many new arrivals.

The Mitsubishi wasted no time covering the dusty distance to the yawning pit. Once there, Ducard pulled Bane's grandfather from the vehicle and removed the hood, tossing it back into the truck as Bane exited. Their prisoner squinted at his surroundings, and the remoteness of their location devoured what little hope had enlivened his expression with the removal of the hood. His fair skin would not take long to burn in this furnace of a wasteland. His eyes trailed over the ancient stones built up around the rim of the shaft, giving the appearance of an enormous well. Ah, but at the bottom of this well, there was no refreshing drink available; what water was there could never be called appealing. It sustained life, little more.

"What is this place?" Dorrance asked suspiciously, eying the large coils of rope kept at the mouth of the shaft for raising and lowering supplies and men.

"You don't recognize the place where you condemned my mother to die?" Bane gave him a rough shove toward the stone walls. "Of course you wouldn't. You probably had no real idea where your lackeys had taken her, did you? Just so much trash to be thrown into any God forsaken dustbin."

As Ducard and Temujin retrieved the rappelling harnesses and ropes from the truck, Bane pushed his grandfather again, this time up against the stones themselves where Dorrance braced himself away from the pit's maw. The old man had paled considerably, and true fear finally overtook his arrogance. For a moment Bane thought his grandfather was about to beg for his life, but he did not give him the chance; Bane spun him about and forced him to look down into the shaft, one hand at the back of his neck, the other counterbalancing to keep him from falling in.

"Look, damn you. Look!"

"What is it you want me to see?" Dorrance asked, his voice reedy with panic.

"It's where you sent her; it's where you killed her."

"I see no prison. I've killed no one. Please…I beg of you…let me go."

"You can't see it?" Bane mocked. "Well, then I shall take you down so you can."

Temujin drew Dorrance back from the stones, freed him from his bindings so he could strap a harness around him. Ducard did the same for Bane.

"You're out of your mind," Dorrance babbled. "I'm an old man. I can't climb down there; it's hundreds of feet."

"Indeed it is," Bane said sarcastically. "But have no fear—I will help you."

"You mean to leave me down there, don't you?"

"You have no idea what I mean to do, old man. Now must we gag you again so I don't have to listen to you bleating like a goat all the way down?"

Dorrance reached for Temujin. "Please…you can't let him do this."

Temujin gave him a stony look, said nothing as he finished tightening the straps, making no effort to allow Dorrance comfort.

Dorrance grabbed for Ducard who shrugged him off. "Please, sir…"

"Temujin will accompany you," Ducard said to Bane, as if Dorrance did not exist.

"He doesn't need to."

"You don't know what might be waiting for you down there. Another gun will not hurt. Temujin will go." Ducard said it in a way that barred further discussion. "If we run into trouble up here, we will fire warning shots. Don't waste time getting Dorrance back up here with you."

"We won't," Temujin assured with a pointed glance at Bane.

"No," Dorrance pleaded. "You can't leave me down there. I will pay you…whatever sum you require—"

"Shut up," Bane said, another shove silencing Dorrance and nearly knocking him to the ground.

The large ropes coiled upon the lip of the shaft were anchored through square channels in the masonry. It was through these channels that the three ropes were secured for Bane, Dorrance, and Temujin. With their rifles slung over their shoulders, first Temujin then Bane began the descent, followed by their prisoner who was eased down by Ducard while his men kept their eyes upon the surrounding horizon.

As he descended, Bane's booted feet fended him away from the familiar gray wall. Through his concentration, memories of the climbs he had made returned to him with brutal clarity. The first had been as a mere boy of fourteen; he had not gotten far up the shaft before weakening and losing his grip. The second time had been years later when he had made it nearly to the top, standing upon one of the ledges just short of the opening. But when he had to leap from one stone platform to the next, his reach had failed him, and he had plunged downward. A terrifying descent that should have terminated at the end of the safety rope's length. Yet when he had reached that limit, the rope—sabotaged by one of Bane's enemies in the prison—gave way, and Bane had crashed downward into the pool at the bottom of the shaft. He had suffered multiple injuries, the worst to his spine. Those injuries would have been the death of him if not for the help of the prison doctor and Melisande, who had the resources and contacts to have him temporarily removed from the pit and taken to a clinic where surgery was performed. That had been his one and only taste of life beyond the darkness before Ducard rescued him. The experience had greatly unsettled Bane and made him realize how ill-equipped he was to live in such an environment and among such people. He had received little kindness while above ground, and while there all he had thought about was returning to Melisande and Talia, his true family.

Thomas Dorrance said little during the descent, either because of Bane's threats or simply out of fear, his bony hands clutching the rope and the harness as if terrified one or the other would soon give way. Bane remained just below him, steadying him when needed.

Farther and farther away from the light. Halfway down Bane heard a shout from below and saw a prisoner pointing up at them as he called to someone else. Soon a second prisoner entered the shaft to see what had caught his companion's attention.

"Are those convicts?" Dorrance asked uneasily.

"Who else would they be?" Bane sardonically said. "Dregs, as you said, like me."

"Will they harm us?"

"They won't harm me or my friend. Hard telling what they'll do to you."

"But—but you will protect me?"

Bane made no reply. Another prisoner entering the shaft caught his eye. He was low enough now to recognize the inmate's shape, his gait, though it was much slower than the days before an addiction to opiates. Doctor Assad. The middle aged physician stood not far from the other two prisoners, a shading hand raised in an effort to see the detail of those descending against the distant glare of sky. The sight of him stirred mixed feelings in Bane, roused more old memories. He recalled the night his mother had died when Assad had consoled him; no one else had cared about Bane's grief, but Assad had helped him navigate the overwhelming sense of loss. Now Bane cautioned himself against sympathy for the man, for what he had once been. To combat any empathy for the physician, Bane revisited that horrible day when Assad had forgotten to lock the door after examining Talia, and prisoners had rushed into Melisande's cell. Never could Bane forget her screams. Never could he forgive the doctor for his criminal lapse.

A broad ledge protruded from the stone walls, stretching around the circumference of the shaft just above a large _bawdi_. Bane knew every inch of that stepwell and the murky pool at the base of the shaft. On all four sides of the _bawdi_, series of steps led ever downward, a pattern of stairs that forced anyone descending to continuously work back and forth, first one way then the opposite instead of direct, a pattern that gave the walls of the stepwell a diamond pattern. The shaft provided the only source of natural illumination in the prison, so inmates regularly came there in search of light and what little warmth might trickle down from the arid surface world. Back in the corridors and cells, guttering oil lamps or braziers within individual cells provided light. There was limited electricity. Only Doctor Assad enjoyed such a privilege, and so he was the sole prisoner to have a television, though small and of poor quality; it received only the BBC via satellite. The television had been Bane's only connection to the outside world. Through those images as well as the stories and lessons learned from other prisoners, Bane came to know about the world beyond the shadows of his prison home.

As his feet touched down upon the ledge, he reached above him to slow his grandfather. He easily detected the man's trembling. Dorrance clutched Bane's arm as if afraid he might fall the rest of the way, and he continued to grip his loose sleeve once he touched down. The old man's attention swiftly turned to the prisoners who drew near. Two others appeared from a nearby corridor, all amazed by what they saw.

Assad spoke, "I never expected to see you again."

"And you won't see me for long." Bane glanced briefly at him, saw dark eyes that were surprisingly clear, eyes that could not conceal a glimmer of hope that perhaps his young friend had had a change of heart and had returned to rescue him.

"Temujin," Assad called up to the Mongol. "I am glad to see you well, my friend."

Temujin, who had none of Bane's prejudices against the physician, grinned. "I missed this place so much, I thought I would return for a visit."

"And who did you bring with you?" Assad gestured to Dorrance.

"You know him…at least by name," Bane said with a bite to his words. When Assad studied the harried prisoner closer, Bane continued, "He's the man who condemned my mother."

Shock stole some of the color from Assad's countenance. "You can't mean to leave him here."

Bane did not respond. Instead he guided Dorrance toward the edge of the ledge. "I will lower you down."

His grandfather's frightened gaze slid along the hostile faces of the other prisoners nearby, watching and murmuring among themselves, their wary eyes upon the guns. Then he turned back to Bane. "Please…I beg of you—"

"You can beg all you want; it won't do you any good. Now hurry up." With his hands upon Dorrance's shoulders, he pushed him down to a seated position upon the ledge with legs dangling, fingers still clutching Bane's sleeve. When Assad started to step closer to help, raising his arms toward Dorrance, Bane barked, "Step back," as he swept the rifle barrel from Assad to the other inmates, who quickly obeyed.

Bane's pulse raced. The way the prisoners stared at his mask irritated him, stoked his anger until it encompassed all of them. He took his restless finger off the trigger, told himself to focus on why he had come here. Together he and Temujin lowered Dorrance to the top of the stepwell. His grandfather disappeared beneath the ledge's overhang, as if to hide in its shadow until Bane and Temujin joined him.

Once below the ledge, Bane roughly pulled his grandfather close and unhooked the line from his harness, then freed himself as well. He shoved the old man to the right, gripping Dorrance's shoulder, the rifle in his left hand.

"Move," he said, the mask making the word a distorted growl.


	6. Chapter 6

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Six**

"Where are you taking me?" Dorrance asked.

"To show you where my mother lived," Bane said, "where she spent every single day of her last thirteen years."

As Bane led his prisoner away, Temujin remained behind to guard their lines. From over his shoulder, Bane heard Assad ask the Mongol about Talia.

Such a reminder of the child distracted Bane, left him missing Talia greatly, an emotion so strong here where they had lived that it momentarily wiped away all other emotions, even the anger. So he forced his attention back to Dorrance whose eyes continuously rolled in fear at the foreign surroundings, his jaw loose with shock, the same expression Bane had seen on the countless faces of new prisoners brought here to suffer and die over the years. None of those men—nor anyone before them—had ever successfully climbed from the pit, and like all those inmates Thomas Dorrance could easily understand why as his gaze trailed longingly back up the shaft.

Bane and his mother had been fortunate; their cell had been on the highest level of the prison, facing the stepwell. The only time such close proximity to the shaft was regrettable was during monsoon season when the nearly continuous fall of rain made the dank environment even more oppressively wet and cold. But at least their location allowed his mother to see natural light. Often she would sit close to the front of their cell, looking up the shaft (but not so close that passing inmates could reach the prison's only woman and the target of their daily crudities). Bane had many recollections of her sitting thusly when he had awoken from afternoon naps, her thoughts obviously far, far away, often upon his father. How incredibly brave and enduring she had been!

When Bane reached his old cell, he thought again of Talia. She and Melisande had lived next to him until Melisande's death, then Bane had brought Talia to reside with him. For a moment the musicality of her laughter played in his ears, and he almost smiled as he remembered her as a toddler, how she used to call him "Ba-ba" until she could later successfully pronounce his name. Sometimes, in private moments, she still used Ba-ba as a term of endearment.

The cell was uninhabited now, though it was obvious that the handful of inmates (all who by then had come to the shaft to investigate the strangers and their motives) lived on this level of the prison. The door was unlocked and slightly ajar. Bane swung it wide and shoved his grandfather inside the space which was barely over ten feet square. Dorrance quickly rushed back toward him and the door, but the raised gun barrel halted him.

"This was it," Bane said coldly. "This is where you put her. This is where she died."

Dorrance struggled to regain some composure. "How…did she die?"

Bane knew the question was insincere; Dorrance gave not a damn how his victim had died. He was merely hoping to find some way into his grandson's good graces, some way to preserve his miserable hide. Bane decided to play along, to let the man think that perhaps there was some hope for survival, for clemency, the way he and his mother used to hope that one day they would either escape or that Edmund Dorrance would rescue them.

"She died of pneumonia," Bane told him flatly.

"Pneumonia? You had no medicine?"

"The prison's medical stores weren't plentiful. They often ran out between resupplies."

"Who—who runs this place?"

"My understanding is that the prison is maintained—if you can call it that—by several men. Some more powerful than others, some more ruthless. But all who need a place to punish and silence their enemies or those that they feel betrayed them in one way or another."

He thought of Melisande's father, a warlord of sorts whose ancestral home was not too far distant from the prison; Bane had often wondered if her father was one of those who controlled the pit prison. Talia's existence remained, to this day, hidden from her grandfather for fear that he might try to eliminate her in order to keep her from any sort of financial claim or from causing a scandal within his family. Yet Bane had a feeling that her grandfather would soon learn from Henri Ducard that there was a price to be paid for what he had done to Melisande after her marriage to Ducard, a marriage originally concealed from Melisande's father, for the warlord had forbidden his daughter from marrying an infidel. When he had found out, he had condemned Ducard to the pit, but Melisande had taken his place, unbeknownst to her husband.

"Did your injuries occur here?" Dorrance asked, gesturing to his face. "That is why you wear the mask, isn't it—your injuries? Or were you…born that way?"

Bane scowled, breathing deeply of the opiate. These were questions that he knew others would ask of him throughout the rest of his life. Perhaps he should accept that, beginning right now; however, coming from this man, Bane knew the inquiry was merely another stalling tactic, a way to defuse his inner rage. But his grandfather was a fool to think anything could ever lessen his hatred.

"I was not born this way," Bane replied curtly, then took his grandfather by the collar and ushered him out of the cell.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

Bane took him to the lowest level of the prison, to the deepest and darkest of all the corridors. With no prisoners inhabiting the cells that they passed, the passageway's lanterns had no reason to be lit. The farther they progressed, the more force it took to keep Dorrance moving.

"I can't see," Dorrance protested. "How can you?"

"I don't need to see. I lived here twenty-five years, old man. I know every inch of this place, the dark and the not-so-dark. Does a mole need vision to find his way along his own tunnels? That's what you reduced me to...or tried to: an animal. I'm taking you to see where such animals were punished."

"Punished? Wasn't being sent here punishment enough?"

_Ah, yes_, Bane thought, _now you are beginning to understand_. But he said nothing more until he reached the end of the corridor. There he used the small flashlight that he had brought from the surface to shine upon the stone paving.

"What—what is that?" Dorrance's question quivered in the air.

"It's where I lived for two weeks after I killed a man; the second man I killed, that is. The first time I was just a boy, and because I killed in self-defense I was granted clemency. But the second time, I killed for revenge. I knew what the punishment would be, but I didn't care."

Dorrance stared at the metal grating. "Where does it lead to?"

"Open it."

"Why?"

Bane aimed the rifle. "Open it."

"There's no need—"

"You asked where it leads."

"It's not necessary that you show me. A simple answer—"

"I said open it…before I put a bullet into one of your kneecaps. Climbing down will be a bit harder then."

"Please…you've shown me enough. I had no idea those men had brought your mother to a place such as this. I wouldn't have allowed it. There were other ways—"

"Open it!" Bane roared.

Dorrance started to bend over but then turned to plead once more. Without hesitation, Bane slammed the rifle butt down upon the man's shoulder, driving him to the floor. Dorrance howled and gripped his shoulder, writhing.

Bane stared blindly at him, struck motionless by a sudden flashback. The first man he had killed. An older prisoner, a man nicknamed the Vulture for his gaunt, bird-like frame and balding pate with its comical ring of sparse hair around the crown of his head. A man who—if he had lived—would now be around Thomas Dorrance's age. The Vulture had taken advantage of Bane's isolation and grief after his mother's death, befriending him and spending many hours with him playing chess. But the Vulture, like so many here, had been nothing more than a predator, setting his trap and luring in his victim until one moment when Bane relaxed his guard and provided the Vulture with his opportunity. The man had tried to rape him, but a concealed knife in Bane's teddy bear proved to be his salvation. He used it in a desperate struggle to slit the Vulture's throat. Frozen in terror, Bane had watched the older man die, pleading—just as Thomas Dorrance was now pleading—for his life, for Bane's help. Fleeing, Bane had abandoned his bloody teddy bear that day and any remnant of childhood innocence.

"My collarbone!" Dorrance's wail pulled Bane back to the present. "I think you've broken it!"

Recovering, angry for his lapse, Bane snapped, "You're lucky that's all I've broken. Now open the damn grating."

Gasping, Dorrance held his right arm against his chest to relieve the pain in his shoulder while his other hand fumbled to grip the grating. With only one good limb, he lacked the strength to comply, though he tried desperately in order to avoid another blow.

"I—I can't lift it."

Bane kicked him aside, driving him back against the stone wall, which Dorrance struck with an outcry. Setting the flashlight down, Bane lifted the grating upon its rusty hinges, allowing it to fall back, nearly missing Dorrance's legs, the sound deafening in the narrow, musty corridor. With eyes wide upon the black opening in the floor, Dorrance pressed himself tighter against the wall. Bane dragged him close.

"Get in."

"No, you can't…I won't… Please…"

Bane slung his rifle behind him so he was free to use both hands, lifting the struggling man so that his feet were near the opening of the hole.

"Either use the ladder or I'll drop you."

Terror robbed Dorrance of his ability to command his legs. Bane smelled fresh urine.

"Very well," Bane said and let go.

With a scream, Dorrance fell into blackness, vanishing down the twelve-foot shaft that emptied into a chamber of hard-packed dirt. Bane remembered it well, that space some five feet square with a ceiling that did not have enough clearance for even a fifteen-year-old boy to stand—his age when he had been thrown into the hole. Those endless hours that had blurred day and night into one long horror still revisited him in nightmares.

Bane switched off the flashlight. Dorrance's moans sharpened into a gasp, and Bane listened as he awkwardly scrambled in the blind darkness to climb back up the ladder. Bane slammed the grating shut and stood upon it.

"No!" Dorrance called. As he tried to climb, he cried out in pain and fell back down. His raspy breathing grew even heavier in the closeness of the shaft as panic consumed him. "Please…don't leave me here. I swear…I swear I'll do everything in my power to help you. Whatever you want… Please…for the love of God…let me out."

"Where's all your power now, old man? What good is your wealth down here, eh?"

Bane would have preferred leaving Dorrance in the hole for some time, but Ducard had cautioned him against lingering too long in the pit. The risk was too great that they could be discovered at the mouth of the shaft. And no matter how much Bane wanted to make his mother's executioner suffer, he wished to preserve his own freedom even more. Nor did he wish to put Temujin and Ducard into unnecessary danger.

So he allowed himself only five minutes of listening to Dorrance's pleas before he finally turned the flashlight back on and opened the grating. A rush of gratitude spilled from his prisoner's lips.

"Climb," Bane ordered. "Or I'll leave you down there for good."

"I—I can't lift my arm. And my ankle…it's sprained. Please…you must help me."

Irritated by being forced to assist his grandfather, Bane pushed aside his own fears and started down the ladder just far enough to be within Dorrance's reach.

"Give me your hand."

Dorrance's flesh—thin and cold—trembled violently in Bane's grip as they started upward. Bane did not slow his movements for Dorrance's sake; instead he raked the man brusquely up the rungs. Once clear of the opening, Dorrance collapsed onto the pavement, breathlessly muttering his thanks over and over.

The strong odor of sweat and urine took hold of Bane's senses, reminded him of the third prisoner that he had murdered—the malodorous Crazy Saul. Elderly and frail. No struggle whatsoever involved to kill him. Bane had lain in wait for Saul to make his customary nightly pilgrimage to the shaft, when the prison lay in relative quiet and the shaft was usually deserted. Saul would come there then, for it was the only time that he did not feel vulnerable. But he had been vulnerable, made so by his routine. Bane had killed Saul quickly, for he did not want the old man to suffer. Though Bane knew the necessity of eliminating Saul, he had been loath to attack one so helpless. Now he stared down at his grandfather in the shine of the flashlight, hesitated, mentally shook himself, reminded him that _this_ old man deserved none of the pity he had felt toward Crazy Saul.

"Get up," Bane ordered, hauling him to his feet, trying to shake off his awareness of the man's fragility.

"Are—are we leaving now? We're going back to the surface?"

"Fortunate for you, my time here is short." Bane flashed the light once into his eyes. "Or perhaps I should say unfortunate…for you." He shut the flashlight off and started up the corridor in total blackness once again.

"Wait," Dorrance begged. "My ankle…I can't move so quickly."

"Then I will wait for you in the shaft."

This threat of abandonment encouraged Dorrance to rally some unknown reserve and shuffle faster in his wake.

They had not gone far before Bane came to a sudden halt.

"Why have we stopped?" his grandfather asked, his breathing still rough and irregular as he caught up.

Bane put a hand over Dorrance's mouth, whispered, "Quiet."

Dorrance must have sensed his concern because he made no effort to speak again, and his hand reached for Bane's clothing.

Bane waited, not breathing, not stirring an inch. Listening. He cursed the mask for hindering his once-acute sense of smell. Someone was close, someone also motionless. Someone waiting with purpose. Of course…the gun was a great temptation. In the light, it was a threat to the prisoners, but here in the dark…it was worth an attempt.

Several minutes ticked past. Bane had removed his hand from Dorrance's mouth, knowing the man would remain tight alongside of him, holding onto his clothing for fear that he would be deserted. Inch by smooth inch, Bane took his gun in both hands at waist level. He detected the tiniest of scuffles just ahead and to his left. The attacker had been carefully sidling along the front of the cells on that side of the corridor, waiting for them to pass, so he could slip in behind and take them from the rear. Now, having halted when Bane had stopped, the attacker was growing impatient. Of course the prisoner did not have the patience of one who had lived here for years, as Bane did. And though Bane reminded himself that he could not tarry today, neither did he want to simply spray the corridor with bullets for fear of a ricochet off the stone walls. He needed to draw the man out.

"The flashlight," he said to Dorrance, now making little effort to keep his voice low, for indeed he needed his stalker to hear the directive. "Hanging on my right hip."

But, as expected, Dorrance could not fumble fast enough to counter the inmate's sudden decision to attack before light could reveal him. Bane allowed the assailant three steps—enough to bring him nearly to the end of the gun barrel—then he fired. The inmate's momentum—while lessened by the multiple shots—carried his heavy, now limp form into Bane. Bane knocked him aside with the weapon, and the man fell to the pavement, giving one last sputtering moan.

Dorrance no longer stood beside him but instead had melted into a terrified crouch at his feet. Bane flashed the light at his bloody victim, into the inmate's dying eyes, then—satisfied—he turned the beam upon Dorrance, the old man's white face glowing in the gloom, reminding him again of Crazy Saul.

"Get up," Bane commanded, but he could see that Dorrance was frozen and had pissed himself again. Bane returned the flashlight to his belt and pulled his grandfather to his feet. At least now, as he hurried him back toward the shaft, Dorrance had lost the ability to speak.

When they reached the shaft, Bane found Temujin at his post, concern on his face. Of course he had heard the gunshots but, as instructed, he had remained in the shaft. Doctor Assad was halfway around the stepwell, headed in Bane's direction, no doubt to investigate. Relief eased his expression when he saw Bane emerge from the darkness. His reaction surprised Bane, for he could not understand why Assad did not hate him for refusing to rescue him. Somehow down here, even after all these years, the doctor maintained compassion. A virtue that Bane knew he would never be able to reflect except when it came to Melisande's daughter.

"Is he dead?" Assad asked with a familiar look of disappointment with Bane for what he had done, as if he were once again a mere child.

Bane moved past without a glance. "Why don't you go find out?"

Thomas Dorrance's courage revived slightly with his return to the shaft. Hope flickered as his attention rose hungrily upward.

Bane nodded to Temujin, and the Mongol stepped over to attach one of the lines to Dorrance's harness.

"You're—you're taking me with you?" Dorrance asked, still holding his right arm against his chest, his injured shoulder sagging.

Bane reached for his own line. "Hope is much like a drug, isn't it? While you have it, you can endure the pain, almost ignore it. That's how my mother survived; she lived on hope." He clipped the carabiner to his harness. "I was that way too…until she died. Then I realized hope was a double-edged sword, a liar, a torturer. It leads only to despair. To survive, I was better off without it."

They began the ascent, moving smoothly and quickly with the aid of their comrades above ground. Bane glanced down once as he rose. The stepwell was empty now; no doubt Assad and the others had gone into the tunnel to see to their fellow prisoner. He swallowed hard as relief poured over him, releasing the tension in his muscles, more tension than he had even realized. The tight knot in his stomach untied.

He squinted up into the light, eager to return to Talia. The emptiness he felt without her reminded him excruciatingly of the days between her escape and his rescue, when he had feared that he would never see her again. For some reason returning to the pit made him worry that he was somehow failing her by not being with her, not protecting her, but as he had every day since being rescued he reminded himself that Talia did not have to rely upon him for protection now. The concept, however, unsettled him more than comforted.

When Ducard helped him over the stone wall at the mouth of the shaft, his eyes bore into Bane with curiosity at seeing Dorrance with him. Those eyes, though a shade faded from his daughter's, were yet another stark reminder that Ducard—not he—was Talia's real family. The family unit that Bane had built with Melisande and Talia was no more. Perhaps it would have been better if he had never known them, for then he would never have had to suffer the agony of losing Melisande, of being unable to save her. Nor would he have to face the idea that he could one day be separated from her child as well. If only his grandfather had not sent his mother here…

Thomas Dorrance clutched Bane's arm as he struggled out of the shaft. Trembling from head to toe, he leaned upon the stone wall as Bane brusquely began to free him of the line and harness.

"Bane," Ducard said in a questioning tone, for Dorrance's return to the surface had not been a part of the plan Bane had shared.

"I know," Bane said irascibly without looking at either man, jerking the harness free and tossing it aside.

"Thank you," Dorrance panted, dragging an arm across his shining forehead, his hair disheveled. "Thank you for sparing me."

With newfound strength, Bane clutched his grandfather by the front of his shirt, lifted him back atop the stone wall, pulling a sharp gasp from the man. Dorrance's legs were rubber beneath him, and he sank heavily to the bricks, both hands gripping the edge of the wall, desperately keeping himself from falling backwards.

"Wait!" Dorrance said. "Please…I told you…I'll give you anything you want… Anything."

Bane leaned down, the mask pressing against Dorrance's face, further unbalancing the man. "I _want_ my mother back."

With that, Bane shoved Thomas Dorrance backward, and his grandfather plunged, shrieking, down the shaft.


	7. Chapter 7

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Seven**

They drove back to Jaipur where their jet awaited to fly them to Riyadh. The journey to the airport had been a silent one, Bane lost in tangled thoughts of his return to the pit and all the memories—good and bad—that it had reawakened. Ducard conversed briefly with Temujin, but even the often loquacious Mongol had little to say. The overall mood continued after they were safely in the air and a meal was provided.

Ever since Bane had recovered enough from his injuries to eat solid foods—prepared especially for his debility, of course, and preceded by an injection of morphine—he ate alone. This practice arose not simply because he did not want to spoil the appetite of others who might find his unmasked deformities unsettling but because of his aversion to putting any weakness on display, no matter how benevolent the company. Old prison habits die hard, and his return to the pit had increased his sensitivity to survival tactics. So while the others ate together, quietly talking, Bane turned his chair with its tray toward the nearest window and stared out over the placid clouds beneath their blue dome of sky.

Once he was through with the uncomfortable process, he replaced the mask, eager to directly partake of the opiate again. Without it, the demons of the pit had seemed stronger within his memories. With the drug flowing through his senses once more, the echo of his grandfather's dying scream did not prod his conscience.

After the meal, Bane drifted off into restless sleep, only to awaken a short time later, feeling stiff and sore from the day's work. He found Ducard—seated across the aisle from him—studying him. Seeing Bane awake, Ducard gave him a tight, self-conscious smile before returning his attention to a copy of the _Wall Street Journal_. Behind them, Temujin and the other men dozed in their reclined seats.

Bane said nothing for a time, aware again of the uncomfortable silence between them since leaving the prison. He told himself that he was imagining things, yet the longer he sat there, with neither of them saying anything, the more agitated Bane grew until at last he could remain silent no longer.

When he spoke, it was as softly as possible for the sake of privacy, yet with enough volume to be heard over the sounds of the jet.

"You think I was wrong to kill him, don't you?"

Ducard was unable to completely hide his surprise at this question. Resting the paper against his thighs, he considered Bane for a long moment. Whenever he did this, Bane squirmed inside, not out of embarrassment or unease, but because he worried that Ducard found something lacking in what he saw.

"Your grandfather was a corrupt, immoral man," Ducard said at last in that unique voice of his, one that could be as soft as Bane's mother one moment then ferocious and intimidating the next. "Ridding society of such a man is never wrong."

Bane expected Ducard's words to make him feel better but instead they only troubled him, knowing that others saw his grandfather as a monster, just as he did, and that the same blood flowed through his own veins. What would he become in time?

"But you think I should have killed him before bringing him back to the surface."

Ducard thoughtfully folded the _Journal_ and set it aside. "Vengeance so personal must be meted out in whatever fashion the aggrieved party feels is appropriate, Bane. No doubt when I came to the prison after Talia's escape, you thought me cruel to kill all who lived there, both those who had butchered my wife and those who had no hand in it."

"I didn't care," Bane truthfully replied, shivering involuntarily at the memory of his physical state when Ducard had first appeared at his side in the pit.

When Ducard did not respond right away, Bane forced himself to look at him again, not stare like a weak child at the seat in front of his own.

A frown turned down the corners of Ducard's thin-lipped mouth. "You work very hard at not caring, Bane. That is what you want others to believe—that you don't care. But I see something different in you, and not just because of my daughter. If you truly did not care, if you did not feel anything, then it would not have been so important to you to kill your grandfather the way you did—a very personal, calculated end. People who kill in such a way often feel the most, care the most. It's those emotions that fuel the drive for justice."

Ducard's insight alarmed Bane, though he buried this reaction as best as he could, turning momentarily away before impelling his gaze back to the big man to prove that he was not made vulnerable by his words.

"You did not kill him just out of anger for what he had done to your mother," Ducard continued, the gentle understanding in his tone chipping away at Bane's veneer. "Your anger is much broader than that." He glanced downward, gave a small sigh before meeting Bane's eyes once again. "You are a man of fortitude to have returned to the prison. I was there only a brief time, but it troubles me still to reflect upon it when I consider how my family suffered there." Ducard paused. "Perhaps now that you have recovered from your injuries, you can tell me more about my wife, about her life after we were separated."

The request certainly was not unexpected; Ducard had told him shortly after rescuing him that he would one day ask about Melisande's life in the pit. And though Bane felt privileged to be able to share such information with his rescuer, he also felt awkward because of his own love for Melisande. How often he had remained awake on his cot at night, imagining that he were sharing it with her. He had even convinced himself that as he matured and the years slipped past, fading her husband from her memory, Melisande would come to desire him in the same way. The hope had never seemed foolish or farfetched at all to him until he had met her husband. But he told himself even now that he would one day be a man as formidable and respectable as Henri Ducard, someone Melisande would have indeed coveted.

When Bane did not immediately respond to his inquiry, Ducard said, "If it bothers you to speak of that place, I understand—"

Quickly Bane shook his head. "No…it's fine." He collected himself. "It's the least I can do for you—to share what I remember of her—considering all that you've done…are doing for me…and Talia."

A mild smile softened Ducard's features, and he graciously bowed his head.

Yet Bane found it suddenly very difficult to conjure words to describe the life Melisande had shared with him. His conscious effort to remember details of their five years together nearly overwhelmed him, the force of his emotions taking him by surprise.

Ducard seemed to sense his struggle, hastened to encourage him by beginning with, "Talia told me that their cell was next to yours."

Bane nodded. "It was my mother's cell…where I lived, I mean. I was lucky to be able to keep it after she died; I was afraid that I might be forced to take another cell farther back in the prison, away from the shaft. The man who used to live in the cell next to me before Melisande arrived…" He faltered, unsure whether to tell Ducard about killing the Vulture, not because he was ashamed of his actions but because he did not want Ducard to inquire as to the circumstances surrounding the murder. "Well…that man…he died just before Melisande got there."

"Having seen the place, I imagine her fear was overwhelming…" Ducard shook his head, momentarily closed his eyes. "And to think it was all because of me."

"She never blamed you. And, yes, she was afraid, but she recovered quickly…in fact, remarkably so, especially considering the lifestyle she had led up until then, her family's wealth."

"Yes, indeed they were wealthy, but Melisande's life was not her own. She was as much a prisoner of her father in her own home as she was in the pit. And her spirit…" He smiled broadly now, his blunt teeth catching the light through a nearby window. "Well, no doubt you learned of her lively temperament quickly enough. She was a brave woman to choose me over her father."

"Yes, she was very brave. I saw it the first day I met her. It made me admire her. Many of the men who came to the prison couldn't accept their fate; it destroyed them physically and emotionally. But Melisande…I could tell that she wouldn't let that happen." Bane hesitated then forced himself to admit, "It was her memories of you, her hope to one day be reunited that got her through those first days. I was a friend to her, as she was to me. My mother hadn't been dead long when Melisande arrived, so you can understand how we appreciated each other's company, both of us having lost the thing we cared about the most. Then when she discovered she was pregnant with Talia, it gave her even more reason to live."

"She was not aware of her pregnancy when she entered the pit?"

"No."

Ducard frowned. "Perhaps if she had known beforehand then she would not have been so selfless and taken my place. She would have rightfully put our child first."

"Yes, but would her father have allowed the baby to live? Maybe, in some tragic way, it was better that she was in the pit instead of you. This way Talia survived…and so did you."

"But at what price? If only I had known what Melisande had done for me."

"What happened to you after her father exiled you? Since you thought Melisande alive, did you try to contact her afterwards?"

Now Ducard's expression closed, an all too familiar effort that hid his feelings as completely as Bane's physical mask hid many of his emotions. Bane feared that he had somehow insulted the man.

"I was very familiar with her father's brutality; as you no doubt know, I had worked for him for several years after I had left the army. I feared for Melisande's safety if I tried to return; her father made his intentions very clear to me. And Melisande herself had made me promise that I would not attempt to forcibly reunite us; she said her father would kill me."

"Why didn't you kill him and take Melisande away with you?"

One corner of Ducard's mustache twitched with surprising amusement. "Prison taught you much about the ways of men, Bane, and though some of what you learned translates easily to the world above ground, you must know that you have much to learn yet. You have romantic notions, perhaps from those stories you read to Talia over the years. But I assure you that such notions will quickly be quashed by reality. And the reality of Melisande's father was that, even if he were dead, he would still find a way to punish both Melisande and me. And if I would not listen to his threats—lethal as they were—I listened to Melisande's wishes. Ah, but don't misjudge me when it comes to my depth of feeling for my wife; I always believed that in time, if we waited patiently, the tide would turn and carry us back to one another." He winked. "_My_ romantic notion."

Bane could not help but smile beneath the mask, for he knew that he too—if he had been Ducard—would have had the same hopes when it came to Melisande. How could any man who knew her as he had not have such dreams?

"But if you both feared her father so much, why did you marry in the first place?"

Ducard shrugged one shoulder. "We were young and foolish; Melisande was even younger than I—ten years separated us. We thought in time we could reveal our secret and that her father would accept it by then. After all, I was a valuable asset to him and, equally important, we had a level of esteem for one another. But he viewed my marriage to Melisande as a betrayal. Truth be told, I had hesitated to marry her for all those reasons, but—as I said—Melisande was even more headstrong than I. Her fire…it was one of the things that attracted me to her, her boldness, her fearlessness. She chafed under her father's strict Islamic beliefs. She dreamed of running away to the west, of going to university." Wistfully, Ducard smiled. "She wanted to study law and become an activist for women's rights."

"Yes, she told me." Bane checked this immediate, almost defensive response. Making it plain to Ducard that he, too, knew all of Melisande's hopes and dreams was perhaps not the right path. He remembered the words of his closest friend in prison—a German, nicknamed Hans—who educated him about the jealousies of men when it came to possessing a woman (or believing that they could possess her). Hans had warned Bane against becoming too close with Melisande, explaining that the other prisoners could very well resent him for it. Of course Bane had been helpless against falling in love with the beautiful woman, and not surprisingly Hans had been correct in his assumptions about the other prisoners.

To smooth over his selfish reply, Bane added, "I see so much of Melisande in Talia."

Ducard nodded. "Yes. She is as remarkable as her mother, even at such a young age. Of course, growing up as she did, she is more adult than child, even at ten, as I'm sure you were at that same age." He hesitated, and distinct guilt darkened his expression. "Was the birth difficult? Were there any complications?"

"Doctor Assad referred to it as a normal delivery."

Ducard shook his head. "To go through such a thing alone…there especially."

"She wasn't alone," Bane assured. A statement that served the dual purpose of consoling Ducard as well as establishing his own importance in Melisande's life, a status that rivaled that of a husband. He could not help himself. These motivations made Bane realize for the first time that he bore a certain level of resentment toward Ducard for his life of ease compared to his wife's existence…compared to his own. Regardless of the reasons Ducard had just provided for his ignorance of Melisande's imprisonment, a part of Bane found it difficult to accept them.

"You assisted with the birth? I assumed the doctor—"

"The doctor delivered Talia, yes, but I helped; he taught me everything he knew about medicine. I'm the one who washed Talia and wrapped her in…" He thought of Melisande's blanket tucked away in his pack, still feared Ducard reclaiming it. "I swaddled her and gave her to Melisande. She was so happy. I've never seen anyone so completely happy. It was like she had always known Talia, like they were being reunited after a long time apart."

Ducard stared, unseeing, toward the forward bulkhead. "If only I could have seen them together… How fortunate you were, Bane. I know that must sound strange to you now but…you witnessed a miracle, one that I will never see."

"She spoke of you then. She wished you were there. She so wanted you to see your daughter."

One corner of Ducard's lips twitched. "And so I finally did…thanks to you." The words, though genuine, did not resonate with particular warmth but instead with something close to veiled bitterness. Bane understood this, however, for it was the same bitterness he felt for not being able to save Melisande from her rapists.

Self-conscious, Bane brushed aside Ducard's gratitude and told him all he could about his family, recounting Talia's first steps, her first words—Mama, followed closely by Ba-ba—a revelation that brought fresh pain to Ducard's rawboned face. Bane told him of the inmate who had snatched the infant from his arms in the shaft one day and had threatened to extort Melisande's family for ransom, an attempt that was foiled by Bane with the help of two of his allies. This kidnapper had been the second man whom Bane had killed, a detail he did not share. He explained how they had carefully kept Talia's gender a secret, how Melisande had named her daughter Henri for that very purpose. Though Ducard had previously learned of his daughter's dual identity from Talia herself, he now smiled with fresh satisfaction in hearing how his wife had honored him.

Bane told of the two occasions before Talia's birth when he had succumbed to Melisande's desire to leave her cell under the cover of night and accompany him into the shaft so that she might see the sky again. Afraid that Ducard might think him reckless, Bane omitted the fact that an inmate had attacked them during their second venture. He described how Talia used to badger them both relentlessly to be allowed into the stepwell, a wish that had been vehemently denied by Melisande who found it difficult enough to allow Talia out of her safe reach to visit Bane's or the doctor's cell with Bane as an escort. After she had witnessed the attack upon her mother, Talia's adventurous craving had been dampened, and she refused to leave Bane's cell for some time. Eventually, though, her liveliness and curiosity had bloomed once more, and she asked Bane to carry her into the shaft. From that day forward, she accompanied him there every day.

Ducard listened with keen interest, displaying both amusement and concern, but when Bane reached this portion of his narration, his expression took on a new level of gravity, and he quietly asked, "You must tell me how she died. I want to know everything."

Bane frowned, slightly uneasy not just over the prospect of subjecting Ducard to such pain but at subjecting himself to the horrific, guilt-inducing memories as well.

"Can you do this for me, Bane?"

He returned his attention to Ducard, tried to garner strength from the man's persuading nod. An involuntary clench of his jaw brought fresh pain, reminding him again of his deformities, of the beating that had led to them.

"You don't need to spare me," Ducard continued. "I need to hear it. I need to share what she suffered for my sake." When Bane hesitated longer, Ducard glanced back at their sleeping comrades, then urged, "Please."

Bane would have given anything to remain silent, to never have to relive that day or feel the inconsolable sorrow, the unbearable failure on his part to protect Melisande. It was that guilt that enabled him to finally speak, to punish himself all over again.

"Long before that day, even before Talia was born," he began haltingly, "Melisande asked me to care for Talia if anything was to ever happen to her. Of course, I promised her that I would, that I would protect Talia until my last breath." He faltered. "I never expected that it would come to that."

Slowly, excruciatingly he told of how the doctor had entered Melisande's cell when Talia had complained of a stomach ache, of how the physician had been urgently called away to treat a gravely ill prisoner, and in his haste forgot to lock Melisande's door behind him.

"I was in the shaft at the time. I heard her scream. By the time I got to her cell four men were already inside and more were coming from every direction. Talia attacked one of the four with a knife. He turned on her, but I knocked him down and carried her away." He bowed his head. "I'm sorry I couldn't help Melisande. I wanted to…"

Ducard's big hand reached across to rest upon Bane's shoulder. "You did the only thing you could do. You saved my daughter."

"Maybe I should have locked her in my cell then tried to help Melisande—"

"Then Talia would have watched you both die. She would have been alone." Ducard's hand squeezed once before letting go. "You did the right thing. You kept your promise."

"I never should have left them that day." His voice trembled; his fingers twitched. "I should have stayed in my cell until Assad left them."

"Bane. Listen to me. Look at me."

Blinking the tears from his eyes, Bane reluctantly turned, embarrassed by the unexpected rush of emotions in front of this man.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of. You did nothing wrong." Ducard frowned. "I'm sorry; I never should have asked you all this so soon after… Forgive me."

Bane nodded in misery and diverted his gaze. The ruination of his nose burned from the influx of moisture due to his tears. He tried to discreetly sniff and swallow; an awkward, painful effort.

"I know you loved Melisande."

Ducard's statement froze Bane, stifled his breath. He stared at the seat in front of him, tried to decipher the man's tone and true meaning. Ducard hesitated before continuing, as if to give Bane a chance to accept or deny what he had said, but Bane dared to do neither.

"If there was anything that any mortal man could have done for her that day, I know you would have done it. I have no doubt."

Bane sensed it then. Subtle, but it was there. Could he call it resentment? It had the feel of resentment, yet… Shame was in it as well. Perhaps shame was its foundation, to have someone—a stranger—risk his very life for a family that was not his own, a family that he could have known if only he had asked the right questions, gone against his wife's wishes, taken matters into his own hands.

When their gazes met again, this time it was Ducard who frowned and turned away, though Bane saw him fight against the weakness. Yet in that brief instant Bane realized that Ducard had seen not his daughter's rescuer but instead the physical embodiment of his own tragic failure to save his wife from a hellish end.


	8. Chapter 8

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Eight**

Bane had never felt so physically restricted in his life. As Ducard stepped away from him, he saw himself in the full length mirror. The transformation both astonished and disquieted him. From where Temujin sat on Bane's hotel bed, the Mongol chuckled, his glee bringing color to Bane's cheeks.

"Is it really necessary that I dress this way?" Bane asked.

"A man in a suit will be a benign sight to your father," Ducard explained again, "and will not immediately put him in a defensive posture the way your—" he twitched an amused eyebrow at Temujin, "—less elegant attire would. And these clothes will better allow him to see you for what you are—an Englishman."

"When he sees my mask," Bane frowned, "I doubt he'll even be aware of anything else I'm wearing. If I dressed as an Arab, I could wear a _shemagh_ to conceal it." His fingers twitched nervously, tugging at the dark tie that Ducard had knotted about his neck, making the collar of his white shirt even tighter than before.

"You may conceal the sight of it, but you cannot conceal the sound of it." Ducard retrieved the suit coat from the bed, held it open for Bane to slip his arms into the sleeves. "Your mask can serve you well in this endeavor, Bane. You should not view it as a handicap but instead as an asset."

_Easy for you to say_, Bane grumped to himself.

"Your injuries may well garner your father's sympathy."

"But he can't see the injuries. All he'll see is this freakish contraption."

Ducard buttoned Bane's coat, brushed the shoulders smooth. "Then it is up to you to make sure that he sees beyond that, that he sees his son, a young man who has mastered countless challenges, a survivor, not a victim. Someone who deserves his respect."

Bane's guts twisted at the prospect of convincing his father of anything. To associate with Ducard and his men was one thing, but to be thrust out into the public eye, to face his father alone… He had never felt more helpless and ill-equipped.

"You can do this," Temujin encouraged, coming over to stand beside him, looking into the mirror with his gap-toothed grin. "Look at yourself. Our young bull is now a man of the world. Your mother would be proud."

Bane was not so sure, especially when he recalled how his mother had always exhorted him to become a better man than the criminals who shared their world in the pit. What would she say if she knew all that he had done since her death?

Nervously he tugged at the narrow leather belt at his waist, the buckle shining in the bright sunlight through the windows that overlooked Riyadh. Wistfully he glanced at his pack on the floor nearby into which he had placed the support belt. His lower back already protested the absence of Choden's brace. Briefly he thought of his medical attendant, as well as the others back at the monastery, especially Talia. How he missed her. And he knew with more certainty than he felt for anything else in life that she missed him just as badly. When would he see her again? Sooner rather than later, he told himself, if the meeting with his father did not go the way he wanted.

"Put on your shoes," Ducard directed. "It is time to go."

As Bane obeyed, Ducard and Temujin gathered their belongings. Briefly Bane's gaze drifted around the spacious, bright suite, considered all of the amenities there—rich furnishings, a stocked refrigerator and bar, large televisions, a bathroom nearly twice the size of Bane's cell, a balcony with a breathtaking view of the Saudi city, king-sized beds with cloud-like softness in which he had basked far too long this morning. He shook his head in disbelief at the prodigious excess. Where did Ducard come by his money? And why did a man of such obvious wealth live in a primitive mountain hideaway?

At the door, Ducard paused with his hand on the latch. "Remember, Bane. Give us fifteen minutes before you leave here."

"Yes, sir."

Ducard gave a nod of approval. "Good luck."

Temujin, too, left his well wishes before he followed Ducard out the door.

Bane's nerves set him on edge even more now that he was so very alone. When he turned, he again caught sight of himself in the mirror. The suit Ducard had provided fit him surprisingly well, its advent adding to the myriad of questions Bane had about the man and his resources. Would he ever get answers? Would the time come when he would feel comfortable making inquiries of Ducard? Would Ducard answer truthfully? Thinking of their conversation on the plane, Bane frowned. No doubt Ducard was hoping today would go well and he would be rid of his ward.

Bane's attention went to the sweep of windows, which faced west. Although the sun was climbing into the sky on the opposite side of the tall hotel, the world outside his windows was blindingly bright to Bane. Last night, when he could not sleep, he had sat upon the balcony in the sultry desert evening and stared out upon the varied patterns of artificial illumination below, had watched the wink of airliners' lights as they came and went in the distance, had thought of the thousands of people living and dying all around him without his knowledge. After growing up in a finite population, he found it difficult now to believe that there were millions upon millions of people existing throughout the world, people and places he would never see. Did he want to see those places or meet those people? His curious nature answered affirmatively, but he was unsure if he could truly bear a realm where the brightness laid everything and everyone so bare.

He checked his wristwatch—a formidable, handsome silver timepiece that belonged to Ducard. Bane gave a sardonic grunt. To think that he now lived in a place where time was quantified and had real meaning… So inconceivable a short while ago.

He sat on the bed and closed his eyes. With a will, he breathed deeply of the opiate, tried to clear his mind except to think of his mother, of her stories about his father and their relationship. If he accomplished nothing for himself today, he vowed that at least his father would know what had happened to the woman he had loved. The sacred promise Bane had made to his mother all those years ago would be fulfilled.

When he left the room behind, he retraced his steps from the evening before when Ducard had walked him down to the café on the hotel's ground floor, the place where he would meet his father, as arranged by Ducard.

"I will be nearby with one of my men," Ducard had explained. "We, too, will appear simply as businessmen, but—have no fear—we will be there to act, should it be required. I instructed your father to bring no more than one man from his security detail, and that if he does not follow my instructions, then the man whom he is to meet will not oblige him."

"How will I know?"

"You will arrive after your father. When you reach the lobby, Temujin will be there. If he is standing casually near the doors, reading a newspaper, then you will proceed to the café to meet your father. If Temujin is seated, that will be your signal to abort. You will proceed immediately out the front doors to our sedan across the street where Hafif will be waiting."

"If that happens, what about you and the others?"

"We will rendezvous with you and Hafif at the airport."

The details of Ducard's various contingencies rattled through Bane's head as he rode the elevator—blissfully alone—down to the lobby. His fingers twitched, and sweat gathered around his collar; he tugged at it, sure the tie would eventually choke him. Why would anyone subject himself to such unwieldy, impractical clothing? Perhaps Westerners were not so advanced after all.

The elevator bell chimed, and the doors slid open upon the lobby, which was busy with customers checking out—all men, most in Saudi dress. A couple of pairs of eyes turned his way, widening in shock and freezing Bane just outside the elevator. Men who had been waiting for the car hesitated to step past him, their gazes dropping quickly away from the mask when Bane's attention turned to them. One cleared his throat, braved sidling past, eventually, hurriedly followed by the others. Hotel employees glanced his way as well but then furtively diverted their eyes.

At last Bane recovered enough to look for Temujin. With immense relief, he saw the Mongol standing across the lobby, newspaper in hand. He lowered it enough to shoot Bane a brief, concerned look, as if afraid Bane would never move without him crossing over to prod him. Bane mentally kicked himself into motion, refusing to look down, refusing to avoid the startled gazes of those he passed.

The hotel's lavish restaurant was located to one side of the lobby—closed at this early hour—while the café where patrons could get a conservative breakfast or coffee lay at the opposite end. Temujin would eventually follow, keeping his attention upon those coming and going. The Mongol, like Ducard and his companion, wore a concealed handgun. Bane, however, was unarmed. If his father proved false and attempted to have him detained for questioning about Thomas Dorrance's disappearance, Bane would have to be ready to elude his captors with nothing more than his fists.

"Will you be…dining…alone, sir?" the maître d' asked, recovering with remarkable speed from his initial shock at his customer's alarming appearance.

"No. A gentleman is expecting me." Bane managed to keep his voice steady. "Edmund Dorrance."

"Yes, sir. Right this way."


	9. Chapter 9

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Nine**

Bane suppressed his instinctive desire to take in his surroundings, to scout for escape routes or things that could be used to his advantage if threatened. To show such outward signs of unrest to anyone potentially watching would be unwise, so he kept his eyes on the back of the maître d'. He reminded himself that Ducard would be there, as promised; he need not look for him in the capacious café.

There were only about a dozen patrons, but Bane felt all eyes upon him, including those of a westerner seated alone directly ahead of them, a middle-aged man who paled as Bane drew closer. He wore a dark gray suit but had removed the jacket and draped it over one of the four chairs at the table. His white shirt was immaculately pressed, bearing a tie with a dark red and gray design. He looked as uncomfortable as Bane felt.

The maître d' stepped aside, sweeping an inviting hand toward Edmund Dorrance. "Your waiter will be with you momentarily, sir."

Bane ignored him, thinking, _Does the fool sincerely think I can drink through this damn thing_?

The maître d' retreated.

In utter, paralyzing disbelief Bane stared into his father's brown eyes as he slowly got to his feet. He bore a striking resemblance to Thomas Dorrance, tall and slim, his short, sandy brown hair parted to one side and beginning to thin, his face bearing the rigors of years spent under the harsh Middle Eastern sun. The arch of his eyebrows matched Bane's, but his nose was shorter, his lips considerably thinner with a long, pronounced philtrum.

"Edmund Dorrance, I presume?"

"Yes." His father seemed to debate whether or not to offer his hand in greeting but then simply gestured to the chair across the table before sitting back down. His hands quickly went to his coffee cup, nervously turning it upon its china saucer, the liquid trembling within.

Just as Bane settled, a waiter materialized at his elbow. Seeing Bane's mask, the man tripped over his first attempt to speak before finding his tongue. "Is—is there anything I can get you, sir?"

"No," Bane said coldly without looking at him.

"More coffee for you, sir?" the waiter asked Bane's father.

"What I have is sufficient for now. Thank you." He forced a wan smile, as if wishing the waiter would linger and thus postpone this meeting.

"We don't want to be disturbed," Bane ordered.

"Very well, sir. If you change your mind, please let me know." The waiter eagerly fled.

Edmund Dorrance tried not to stare at the mask, but of course it was impossible if he intended to meet his son's gaze. "Your message said you have information regarding my father's disappearance. Are you an associate of his?"

"No." Bane hoped the mask successfully hid some of his struggle to maintain composure. To be facing the man whom he had thought of and dreamed about for years, had heard stories about, had hoped to be his rescuer… The emotions and disbelief nearly strangled him. How he wished the mask away. Surely without it and his injuries, his father would not be looking at him with so much mistrust and uneasiness. Perhaps without it, his father would recognize himself and the woman he had once loved.

"Is he…is he alive?"

"I will answer your question after you have answered some of mine."

His father's eyebrows knit, and he studied Bane for a lengthy moment before asking, "Have we…have we met somewhere before, you and I?"

The inquiry caused Bane to falter. The timbre of his father's voice triggered a flash of memory, something poignant but unidentifiable, something during a time of great pain. With no time to search his past for what had undoubtedly been nothing more than a wish, he pushed the strange feeling aside.

"No, we have not. Why do you ask?"

Dorrance shook his head. "It's nothing, I'm sure. I would remember your…" His words tripped to a halt.

"My mask? I haven't worn it long, but even so, you do not know me."

"Then why have you offered to help me?"

"I didn't come to help you."

"But…my father—"

"Your father," Bane's voice gained strength, "he's always watched over you, hasn't he? He's provided you with your current…station?"

Now a shadow of defensiveness crossed his father's face, and he straightened slightly in his chair. "True enough, he had a positive influence in certain circles when it came to my career, but you misjudge me if you think I'm incapable of…" He bit off his words, blinked once with a slight shake of his head. "What is it you want?"

"You are married, I understand, with a family."

A muscle twitched along his father's jawline. "What does that have to do with your reason for being here?"

Bane could not ignore the pain caused by his father's bristling reaction. It was plain that Edmund Dorrance cared for his family, feared for them now, especially because of his own father's mysterious disappearance. Though Bane realized it had been a stretch to hope that Edmund Dorrance's family served strictly a practical purpose, it injured him all the same to know that he and his mother had been so readily replaced.

"It's a marriage you resisted at first, am I right?"

Dorrance bridled even more. "That's none of your business, sir."

"Your wife…she wasn't your first choice, though, was she?"

"How dare you? What does this have to do with my father?"

"It has everything to do with your father." Bane forced an edge to his tone to cow him, afraid that he would flee at any minute. "You need to hear what I have to tell you."

"Then tell me without this—this interrogation."

Bane's fingers twitched in his lap, and he brought them atop the table, laced them together. "There was a woman…before your wife, the daughter of a diplomat who had been killed…"

His father's eyes widened, and what color anger had returned to his cheeks now drained instantly away.

"You remember her then? Katherine. Or, as you called her, Kat."

His father's eyes nearly started from his head. Yes, he would be shocked to hear that the pet name only he had used for her was known to someone else, someone whom he did not recognize.

"Who are you?"

Bane leaned slightly over his hands. "She never forgot you, you know."

Agape, his father shoved his chair back from the table and nearly got to his feet, but something held him there, and Bane could only hope that it was love for his mother.

"You don't know what you're talking about. You can't. She's been dead for twenty-five years, and you can't be old enough to have known her—"

"I am twenty-five. And you were misled—she's only been dead for twelve years."

"You—you have mistaken the Katherine I knew for someone else. The Katherine I knew was killed in an accident…twenty-five years ago…" His expression of outraged denial momentarily cleared as he repeated the number but then the anger returned. "This isn't about my father, is it? This is some sort of ploy to blackmail me."

"I told you that I have information about your father, and I do. But more importantly I have information about the woman you _should_ have married, the one who loved you until her dying day. I promised her that I would find you, that I would tell you the truth about what happened to her."

His father fell silent as he struggled within himself over whether to stay or leave, whether to believe what this stranger was saying to him. The fact that he lingered proved to Bane that long ago, when he had been informed of the sham death, a part of his father had not believed the news.

"Did you try to find her?" Bane asked, his voice quieter now, his own emotions catching up with him.

"Find her? She died."

"That's what your father wanted you to believe, yes. But what he really did to her…it was worse than death."

His father tried to rally indignation. "Why should I believe anything you're saying? Who are you?"

"You should believe me because I was with her in prison. I was with her when she died, when she last spoke of you."

"Prison?"

"Yes, prison. It's where they took her when the car accident was staged…staged by your father."

Edmund Dorrance's eyebrows lowered. "You're out of your mind—"

"You don't believe your father capable of such a thing? Look what happened after she disappeared—you did exactly as he wanted; you're still doing exactly as he wanted. I've met your father, and in just that short time I knew he was capable of condemning her. So if I knew that after just meeting him, I know you believe it after all these years. Is that why you believed him when he told you that she was dead? You knew, even if it was a lie, that he would never let you be with her."

His father stared at the table, and in his eyes Bane saw the memories. A vision that Bane painfully shared, for he had felt those same things after Melisande's death.

"Tell me then," his father said with barely the strength to whisper. "Tell me what really happened."

Bane hesitated, his mouth uncomfortably dry. He stared at his untouched water glass, the ice within it nearly melted now, the liquid mocking him. "Your father's men took her to a prison not far from Jaipur, India." From his pocket he withdrew a slip of paper and slid it across the table. "Those are the coordinates to its location. There is a doctor there by the name of Assad who will verify her existence, her death. It is a place from which no one returns. It lies hundreds of feet underground. She spent the rest of her life there, longing for the day when you would come for her. She was the only female prisoner, so she was confined to her cell. That's where she died of pneumonia."

His father's eyes had become moist and haunted as he listened, turning the paper over and over in his hand, trying to believe and not believe all at once. "How—how do you know all this?"

"I told you—I was there, too." He waited until his father had the strength to look at him again. "She gave birth to me there. I was thirteen when she died."

Bane saw it all come to his father then, the years, the numbers, the calculation, the youthfulness of the man who now faced him…and, Bane hoped, the memory of his mother's eyes which Bane saw each time he looked in a mirror. He watched the belief spread across his father's features, pushing the man against the back of his chair for support, his arms dragged from the table, his hands falling limp into his lap. Bane said nothing more, waited without breathing, battling back the mist that fought to blur his vision.

"It was you," his father croaked out. "It was you I saw."

Bane frowned in confusion.

"They told me how you kept repeating my name. I was in New Delhi at the time…"

"What…what are you talking about? How could you have seen me? I was in prison until…" Bane's words trailed away into memory. The pain he had suffered then had made him forget, had made him credit to delirium what he had thought he heard that day seven years ago, delirium from the agony of his injuries and the drugs after the surgery. A man had come to see him at the clinic, but Bane had never seen his face, too groggy after the operation. Yet he had heard him talking with the doctor. If only he could remember…

"They said you had been trying to escape, that you had fallen…"

Bane felt suddenly lightheaded. He reached to the rear of his mask to the small canister where the opium crystals were placed, tapped it almost frantically.

"You weren't wearing that mask then, and the only name they told me was…was…"

"Bane."

"Yes—yes, that was it. And, of course, I didn't recognize you. How could I?" His father's voice diminished. "How could I?" He searched Bane's face, the eyes above the mask. "Did he know? Did my father know when he sent her there…that she was pregnant?"

"No," Bane managed. "She hadn't told anyone. She had just discovered it…before… And she was afraid of what your father might do if he found out."

They sat looking at one another, as if truly seeing for the first time.

"If I had known…" his father began then faltered. "You must believe me…I never would have allowed you to be sent back there."

A lump in his throat prevented Bane from responding. Could he believe his father? To think that he could have been rescued then and perhaps Melisande and Talia, too…Melisande would now be alive…

"Bane… Is that your real name?"

Unsuccessfully Bane tried to swallow the lump. For some reason the name that he had banished the day his mother had died sprang back to his lips as if he had thought of it just yesterday. The mask denied his father hearing his weak response. In answer to his puzzled look, Bane repeated, this time with more of a will, "She called me Edward, after her father."

This detail about his maternal grandfather swept away any scrap of doubt that may have lingered in Edmund Dorrance.

"How—how did you escape? You said no one ever—"

Thinking of Ducard and Talia's safety, he said, "I climbed again."

His father sipped distractedly from his cup, more from nerves than true thirst, Bane could tell. After setting the coffee back down, he gestured weakly, self-consciously. "If I may ask…why do you wear the mask? Were you injured again?"

"Yes." Bane left it at that, though he could see his father's troubled curiosity. Was he wanting to help? Would he offer money or medical services to make up for all these years? Bane hoped not, for pity was the last thing he desired from his father of all people.

"Are you in pain?"

"Sometimes."

"I'm sorry. I truly am. If I had known…" He hesitated. "I loved your mother. When I thought her dead…I was lost. For a time I couldn't imagine living without her. I resented my father for introducing me to Saihah, the woman he wanted me to marry. I didn't want to like her, but…she understood my grief; she had lost a sister who was very dear to her. Over time we became friends, close friends…then…" His finger trailed around the rim of his coffee cup. "I thought Katherine was dead. Saihah made me see that I had to go on living."

"You have two children."

There was surprise in his father's eyes but not the alarm that Bane had seen earlier when he had mentioned his family.

"Yes. They are grown now." He paused. "Where do you live?"

"Far from here…with friends." Bane detected a certain amount of relief in his father's eyes, and though it did not surprise him, it hurt Bane all the same. "I haven't come here to cause a scandal for you and your family. I bear you no ill will for what I've endured. I came because of the promise I made to my mother." Bane faltered. "And because I wanted to meet my father. I needed to know that he's not like his own father."

The reminder of Thomas Dorrance extinguished some of the light in his parent's eyes. "And what of my father? Do you really have information about him?"

"I know of his fate, yes."

The anger that Bane had carried into this place no longer provided the strength he needed and was, in fact, gone. Though he did not regret his actions, to lay out the truth now that he had met his father seemed ever so much more difficult and unwise.

"He is dead."

His father's hand tightened upon the white tablecloth, spokes of wrinkles fanning outward. "And how do you know this?"

Bane's admission would not come forth…not now. He had weighed his choices before coming here, had told himself that if his father's response to his paternity was favorable then he would not reveal that he was responsible for Thomas Dorrance's murder. Now, having acquired that benign response, he felt cowardly for not admitting his crime. Yet he reminded himself of what he had owed his mother, of how he could never have lived with himself if he had allowed his grandfather to go unpunished. Nor could he so jeopardize his promise to Melisande to safeguard Talia by admitting to his guilt and potentially suffering prosecution and jail time.

"Like you," Bane said at last, "I have people whom I must protect, so I can't say all that I know. But I also understand what it is like to wonder, to never have answers. Even tragic answers are better than no answers at all. So believe me when I tell you that he is dead." Thinking of Doctor Assad, he added, "Perhaps his body will be returned to you, unlike my mother's body, which is lost to both of us."

This reminder of the tragedy they shared left them both silent for a long space of time. Bane took comfort in the fact that Thomas Dorrance's death had elicited neither rage nor tears from his father. Though emotions, including grief, reflected in his father's brown eyes and in the tightening of his jaw, he allowed no words to express them. Perhaps, Bane told himself, his father had hated the man as much as he did, and learning of his part in the death of Bane's mother had only added to that hatred. Yet even if all of this was true, Bane still could not admit to him what he had done; he did not want this encounter to end with his father realizing what his son was capable of doing.

And with that thought pushing at his nerves, Bane abruptly said, "I must be going," and shoved his chair back.

"Wait," his father held out his hand. "Wait…"

Bane stood but held his place.

"You're just going to leave…after all this?"

Bane tried to read what was behind his father's question. Anger? Indignation? Hurt? He was too afraid to search for the answer.

"We both know I can't stay. I understand the situation; I won't disrupt your family or your career."

His father stood. "But…there must be something…something I can do for you."

His response disappointed Bane. Yet what did he expect? To believe that his father would embrace him and welcome him into his life had been sheer folly. He realized that now; perhaps he had realized it before he had even sat down at this table. After all, he was no longer the small boy who dreamed every night of his father delivering him from his nightmares. And perhaps his father even suspected his hand in Thomas Dorrance's murder, and if he ultimately found that to be true, he would surely want nothing to do with his son. So they were better off parting now.

"There _is_ one thing you can do," Bane said at last.

An expectant, almost anxious line creased his father's brow. "What is it?"

"Don't ever forget her." He said this as a command, not as a request. "Because she never forgot you."

Then, before his father could react, Bane turned for the door. And though his father called after to him, Edmund Dorrance did not pursue him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Ten**

Bane sat for several minutes longer in the back of the black sedan after Hafif had parked outside the jet hangar. Numbly he stared at the leather seat back in front of him.

"It will be about half an hour before the others arrive," Hafif said. "Do not wander off."

With that terse order, the man left his driver's coat on the seat and exited the vehicle. Bane knew Hafif would not have done so if not certain that no one had followed them from the hotel. From the trunk, Hafif removed his pack, leaving Bane's behind, and walked with confident purpose out onto the ramp where their jet was receiving the last of its fuel. Sunlight flashed against the handgun on his hip.

Now that both Thomas and Edmund Dorrance had been dealt with, Bane got the impression from Hafif's stony visage that he was relieved to be nearly through with this mission, as if the very personal nature of their venture displeased him. Throughout these short days, neither Hafif nor Passat had spoken more than a sentence or two to him. At first Bane had figured it was merely their aloof nature as trained men, but after sensing Hafif's current mood—perhaps something the man would not have displayed if Ducard were present—Bane began to wonder if they resented their master's solicitude for this deformed criminal. After all, he was not one of them, and his injuries—both emotional and physical—portrayed him as inferior to them. Perhaps, Bane thought, he would one day be able to prove them so very wrong.

As the conversation with his father played over and over in his head, Bane shifted in the leather seat, fingers twitching until his agitation chased him out from behind the heavily darkened windows of the vehicle. He paced inside the hangar, protected from the sun but not from its stifling late morning heat. It had to already be over forty degrees Celsius. Sweat poured down his face and neck, the mask smothering him. He clawed at the knot of his tie until it came free. Tossing it back into the car where the suit coat lay, he unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt. He pulled the tails free of his slacks as he continued to restlessly walk back and forth, ignored by the couple of airport employees who passed near; ignored, that is, after their initial stares at his mask.

He wished he could tear the mask off as well. Would his conversation with his father have ended differently if he had sat before him as a whole man? His father would have better recognized his mother in his features, he was certain. Then he berated himself for leaving so abruptly when he had not gotten the welcoming response he had desired. Perhaps if he had remained longer, allowed his father to get to know him, to understand and appreciate all that he had suffered, things would have been different. Like Ducard had said, such information might have softened Edmund Dorrance. Now he would never know.

No, he told himself after further debate, he was a fool to hope anything would have been different. His father had a family, a career to preserve. Even introducing someone who lacked the hideous physical aspects would no doubt drive a wedge between his father and his wife, perhaps even between his father and his children, raising questions that had only uncomfortable answers. And then if he was truly suspected as Thomas Dorrance's murderer, his father would have to choose between the man who had created him and the man whom he had created. No, Bane assured himself, it was far better that he forge his own way in life. He had kept his promise to his mother; that was all that truly mattered.

When another sedan pulled up near the hangar, Ducard, Temujin, and Passat emerged. After removing their belongings from the trunk, Ducard spoke briefly with the Saudi driver before the car pulled away. Seeing Bane, Ducard came toward him while Passat and Temujin carried their bags toward the jet.

Unexpectedly, Bane had trouble finding his voice at first, so Ducard rescued him, "Did you find your meeting to be satisfactory?"

His choice of words left Bane somewhat flummoxed, yet he figured Ducard's seeming detachment was an effort to separate emotion, and thus pain, from the ordeal, for surely Ducard could see by his demeanor that the meeting had decidedly not gone well.

"I—I think he believed me…about my mother, I mean, and who I am to him."

Ducard removed his sunglasses. "And you told him of his father's death?"

Bane nodded.

"It appeared to me," Ducard said, "that he was neither alarmed nor angered."

"I don't know. I'm not sure he could take it all in just then, especially after all the other things I had told him before that. But, at least, I know he believed that his father is dead."

"And did you discuss your future?"

Ashamed, he could not meet Ducard's eyes. Instead he stared at the man's crisp, straight tie, the suit coat still buttoned. "No. I figured if he wanted to be a part of that, he would have said so. He did not."

To internally realize such a painful thing had been barely endurable, but vocalizing the rejection gave free rein to his emotions, and he had to rapidly blink, his head still bowed, in order to conceal his feelings.

"It would appear," Ducard said, "the apple did not fall far from the tree."

Bane produced a grunt of false apathy, but he knew Ducard saw through his effort. "Then where does that leave me if we come from the same tree?"

"You are the obvious fruits of your mother, Bane. And that is something in which you should take comfort."

Bane could yield little more than a weak nod.

"And what now for you?" Ducard prompted. "You assured me that you have considered options should your father prove…less than accommodating."

Bane's lie came back to haunt him now, for in reality he had no true alternatives. He had spoken of Hans and a nonexistent offer to find him employment in Germany, as well as claiming an interest in becoming an interpreter for the military. But even if such opportunities were viable, Bane did not want to leave Talia, especially so soon after their rescue. This was the sole point of relief for him over his father's rejection. Bane knew Talia needed him still…and he needed her. She was the only one who could ever understand him. He had been a fool to hope that his father would even try.

Stalling, Bane scuffed his loafer against the pavement, stared at the shining dark leather as he remembered his sad excuse for shoes in prison, how he had cobbled his and Talia's footwear together, as he had with their clothing as well.

"Well," he mumbled, then straightened and forced himself to look Ducard in the eyes and speak as clearly as the mask allowed, "the truth is I'd like to return with you…to be trained…and to serve you however you see fit."

Ducard studied him for an uncomfortable moment, and Bane feared that the man might rebuff him. Surely his words had not taken Ducard by surprise?

"It is not blind allegiance that I seek in my men," Ducard said at last. "We fight for a cause. It is to that cause that they swear allegiance, not to me, not to any man."

Frustrated, Bane struggled to articulate his plan. "I am here because you saved my life. How many of your men can claim a greater debt to you? What could possibly make a man more loyal?"

Ducard put a hand on Bane's shoulder, his gray eyes piercing. "I don't doubt your loyalty, Bane. My daughter's existence is proof of the strength of such loyalty. But what my men fight for—and what many of them die for—is loftier by far than owing another man a life debt. You must understand that I hold no such debt over you, nor would I do so with any man, no matter what has been sacrificed. If you return with me, you will seek only to serve the cause of justice, not me, not a man, not yourself."

"That's all I've ever sought—justice. Justice for my mother, for myself, for Talia, for…Melisande. So you can rest assured that I am well-versed."

Ducard's hand dropped back to his side. "Yet you know nothing of our…organization. You know nothing of the League of Shadows. It is not the life for every man. It is a solemn commitment fraught with sacrifice; it is not an occupation."

This was the first time Bane had heard Ducard refer to his organization by name. The fact that he saw fit to now share it thrilled Bane and returned some of his self-confidence, gave him hope that Ducard viewed him not as merely a handicapped boy but as a capable man.

"I've lived my whole life in the shadows," Bane slowly responded. "I know nothing else. And from what I've seen so far of the rest of the world and how it views me, I think it's best if I remain in the shadows." He paused. "If you'll have me."

Bane held his breath as Ducard considered him, looking down along his prominent, slightly crooked nose, a stirring of hot breeze toying with his hair. What seemed the longest moment of Bane's life passed before Ducard's gaze softened, and one corner of his mouth twitched in a brief smile.

"Very well," Ducard nodded. "If you are able to stand up to the rigors of training, then perhaps the time will come when you can enter our ranks. But understand me, Bane. There can be no partiality on my part. This goes beyond anything that we—or others—may view as reciprocity. You succeed or fail by your own doing."

Able to breathe once more, Bane tried to temper the eager appreciation in his voice, "I understand. Thank you, sir."

"Very well, then. Grab your pack, and let's be on our way." They turned together as the jet engines whined to life. "By the time we return, you should have the privilege of meeting the League's esteemed leader, Rā's al Ghūl. He will have returned to the monastery by now."

Surprise nearly tripped Bane. "But I thought you—?"

"No, dear boy. I am a mere foot soldier compared to him. Men like me can only aspire to such greatness."

Intrigued, Bane said no more, for words could scarcely be heard now over the engines as they hurried across the ramp.

Rā's al Ghūl. Bane turned the curious name over in his mind. The Demon's Head. What sort of man would take such a title? And why had Ducard and his men kept this seemingly benign information from him during these past months? Did Ducard not trust even the man who had saved his daughter?

As Bane climbed up the ramp stairs to the jet, he wondered of all the other things that remained hidden from him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Eleven**

The door to the monastery flew open when Bane and the others were still several feet away, and Talia—lacking a coat of any kind—burst out into the cold toward them, her face alight as she exclaimed, "You're back! You're back!"

She flew across the hard-packed snow and, to Bane's surprise and delight, threw herself not into her father's arms but into his own. She squeezed him to near suffocation.

"You came back!"

Bane laughed. "Of course I came back. I told you we'd see each other again, didn't I?"

"I missed you so much."

"I missed you, too, little mouse." Close to her ear, he urged in a whisper, "Go to your father," and reluctantly set her down.

"Papa!"

Before Ducard scooped her into his arms, Bane caught the slight shadow in the man's eyes, and from beyond him Temujin tossed Bane a cautioning look.

"You aren't going away again, are you?" Talia asked her father with a kiss and a winning smile.

"Not for a while at least," Ducard assured.

"Next time I get to come with you."

Ducard chuckled. "We shall see."

Temujin put on a hurt look, arms crossed against his chest. "Apparently you did not miss me, little one."

She grinned at the Mongol and squirreled down her father so she could embrace Temujin, who laughed appreciatively.

"All right, all right," Temujin said, fending off Talia's playful kisses. "Why don't you run and tell Jamyang that he has five starving men to feed?"

With her cheeks flushed by the weather as well as good cheer, Talia gave her father and Bane one last dazzling smile then bolted back through the door. Ducard shook his head, chuckling again, then led the way inside.

The door to the monastery opened upon a small anteroom which led into a larger receiving room. This room was illuminated only by candles and a few windows which bore the same opaque glass as all others in the monastery, allowing nothing except muted light to intrude from the outside world. Bane had often come here during his two months of recuperation, for he found it a place of peace in which he could often be alone and meditate. Even Talia knew not to disturb him there, though sometimes she would creep in and sit silently next to him.

Beyond this room they were met by a man whom Bane did not recognize. At first he thought perhaps this was Rā's al Ghūl, but he dismissed the idea out of hand due to the man's young age. Surely someone younger than Ducard would not be the League's commander.

"Ah, Damien," Ducard said with a certain amount of warmth in his tone. "I'm pleased to see that you have safely returned."

The two men briefly embraced, a gesture that Bane had never seen Ducard share with anyone except his daughter. It took Bane aback.

Passat and Hafif said nothing to Damien, merely offering acknowledging nods before continuing on their way past him. Bane envied them, for the exhausting climb up the mountain and the mask's waning drug supply left him eager to retreat to his room. But he dutifully remained just behind Ducard, awaiting the inevitable introduction. Behind him, Temujin made a low sound in his throat, muttered something in his native language. Bane glanced at his friend and received a disgruntled flash of dark eyes.

When Damien stepped back from Ducard, his narrow eyes reached to Bane, sharply aware and devoid of any friendliness. They were unique eyes—brown in color for the most part except for the outer rims of the irises, which were blue. His brown hair was cropped short in a military style, his eyebrows thick and without definition, several days' growth of beard darkening his strong jawline. His clothes were militaristic as well—olive drab cargo pants and a tank top that accentuated a muscular, tattooed torso and arms. He stood nearly Bane's height. Bane guessed his age to be early thirties.

"So this is Talia's protector, I assume." The young man spoke with an American accent and with no hint of gratitude or appreciation toward Bane. He gestured at Bane's mask with a cocky smile. "I'm _assuming_ because you are the only one here to match the… inimitable description I received of her protector."

"Yes, this is Bane," Ducard said, turning. "Bane, this is Damien Chase; he is—what you might call—my lieutenant."

Instinctively hesitant, Bane slowly offered his hand, which Chase took before it could be fully extended. The tight grip was more challenging than welcoming, as was Chase's smile with his straight, white teeth. Something about him reminded Bane of a prisoner named Greyson, a man who had often tormented Bane as a boy, a memory that kept any proprietary warmth from his expression now.

"And no doubt you remember Temujin," Ducard said.

Now Chase's smile vanished altogether as he eyed the Mongol, who made no effort to come within reach. "Yes, I remember well the man who forsook the League."

"Now, Damien," Ducard chided. "Don't discourage our Mongolian brother. I've nearly convinced him to rejoin us permanently."

Keeping his stare on Chase, Temujin said, "Yes, but there are a _few_ things about the League that he has yet to convince me of."

Chase's smile returned with the same chill that permeated their mountain home. "Oh, Temujin, how we have missed your wit."

"Come now, gentleman, you may exchange pleasantries later," Ducard interceded. "Damien will excuse us while we refresh ourselves after our long journey."

"Yes, sir," Chase said with a slight bow, stepping out of their path. "I am prepared for your debrief whenever you are available."

"Very good. Thank you, Damien."

Bane exchanged a final glance with the man and perceived a strong, private glint of defiance. Following Bane and Ducard, Temujin grumbled again in his native tongue, and Bane had a strong suspicion that the words formed a curse.

###

Bane, as always, ate alone in his room. Even Talia knew not to attempt to enter at such a time, though she had often tried, as she did today, eager to learn of his trip. Bane almost allowed her in this evening because he had missed her so greatly, but in the end he begged her patience until he was finished eating. Whenever she had looked upon his unmasked face, he saw the horrible guilt she still harbored over the sacrifice he had made for her and the suffering he now endured because of it. Several times, especially early on, the sight of his injuries brought her to tears. Never did he want her to feel culpable, and though he knew he could not erase her regrets, he could at least spare her from seeing such a blunt reminder. As well, he could spare himself from her tears, for their appearance always took him back to the day of her mother's murder when she had sobbed inconsolably in his arms.

Once he had eaten, he resupplied the mask's canister, but before he could don the apparatus, a knock sounded at his door. Figuring the visitor to be Talia again, he said, "Just a minute."

"It's Choden," came the voice of his medical attendant.

This one Bane knew he could not deny admittance, for Choden would enter anyway, and so he invited him in.

After closing the door behind him, the Tibetan hurried over, saying, "Wait, wait. Let me see."

Bane knew after all these days that if there was anyone he could be comfortable around without his mask it should be Choden. Yet, for some reason, the days he had been gone from the monastery had given him a fresh self-consciousness, perhaps because of all those expressions of revulsion from strangers during his time away. From where he sat on the edge of his bed, he avoided Choden's eyes as the man pulled a chair in front of him. Then the attendant went to the small, adjoining bathroom to wash his hands and don sterile gloves before returning to the chair.

Examining first Bane's mutilated nose, Choden asked, "Did you apply the salve twice a day, as I instructed?"

Bane knew better than to lie to the intuitive little man. "Whenever I could," then when Choden pinned a reproachful look upon him, he hurried to add, "I made sure I did it at least once a day."

Choden tsked and mumbled in his mother tongue as he moved on to Bane's mouth. "Open. Not wide, not wide," his reminder came as pain caused Bane to automatically obey. "There. Yes, good. Ah… Some bleeding."

"When I eat."

"And you have been eating only what I gave you permission to eat? What I sent with you?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Yes. It is troublesome. I had hoped this would stop by now. Close." He grunted. "Did you irrigate your mouth after every meal while you were gone?"

"Choden," he said with a hint of exasperation. "It's not like I was always in a place where—"

"Now, now, now," the Tibetan admonished with a raised finger. "I can see that a few days away from my eyes you have become lax." He sat back in the chair, wearing that familiar reproving expression that reminded Bane so much of his mother when she used to scold him.

Bane could not help but laugh.

"Oh, yes," Choden grumbled. "Ha, ha. Very funny. But the one who so foolishly refused proper medical care when it could have done him good now must listen to a former sheepherder for medical advice if he expects to remain without infection. It is still early in your recovery, Bane."

Conjuring enough penitence to earn an end to Choden's harangue, Bane reached for the mask. Choden swiped it out of his hands and began examining it inside and out.

"You disinfected this daily as I instructed?"

"Of course."

Choden grunted again, muttered, "'Of course,' says he. So I should believe him? Well…" He glanced at his patient. "And how did it perform?"

Bane frowned, his fingers twitching, eager to put the mask back on; he had only injected a small dose of morphine before eating his meal. "It wanted to slip a bit in the heat."

"Hmm, yes, I was afraid of that. The design needs to be altered so that it doesn't just hug the front and sides of your head but the top of your head as well."

Bane envisioned something resembling a knight's helmet, some medieval monstrosity that made him even more frightening than he already appeared. "Well," he stammered, "how often will I be in places that hot?"

"Difficult to say, of course. But you want the mask to serve its purpose in all climates, especially if you are to become one of us, as I hear you now desire to be." Choden's brief glance easily showed his approval, and he fought away a proud smile as he carefully seated the mask for Bane.

"The dirt made the fasteners hard to manage a couple of times," Bane said.

"Yes, also as I feared. They will have to be reengineered as well so they are better protected from the elements. And the seals? How did they perform, especially since you say it was slipping?"

"I had to keep adjusting the tightness, especially when I went from the heat outside to inside where it was markedly cooler."

"Yes, expansion and contraction. Apparently the designer did not take that enough into consideration." Choden carefully examined the mask now that it was once again where it belonged. "I will note all of this in my report to the good doctor. As you know, he was expecting that he would have to make modifications, especially once you were using it in a practical way." His attention now lowered to the back brace that Bane wore once more. "And the brace? Was it comfortable enough?"

"Not sure you can call such a contraption 'comfortable,' but, yes, it was comfortable _enough_, though it was hot, of course."

"It did not chafe?"

"Just a little. I used the talc that you gave me."

Again Choden leaned back in his chair and studied his patient, and Bane could see the older man's concerns shift. "And while you were gone, did you accomplish what you set out to do?"

Bane frowned, for Choden had known the true purpose of his journey. "Mostly."

"But you are staying with us?"

"Yes. Meeting my father…well, I think it's best for both of us that I came back here."

Choden gave him an empathetic yet melancholy smile and a brief pat on his knee. "I am sure you are right, my friend." He removed his gloves. "And, for my own part, let me say that I am pleased to see you back with us. I think you have much to offer."

Unexpected emotion caused Bane to pause before thanking him. Choden's honest charity chased away some of his despondency.

A knock upon the door interrupted them, and at Bane's invitation, Ducard opened the door. He did not, however, enter.

"Are you ready, Bane? Rā's al Ghūl is waiting to meet you."

Bane's surprised gaze went to Choden; he had not expected this introduction so soon after his arrival. Choden proffered a smile of encouragement then stood to leave.

The attendant spoke as he crossed the small room, "Bane has given me several things to report to the mask's designer for improvement. I will write to him immediately."

"Very good," Ducard said. "Thank you, Choden."

The Tibetan bowed slightly before he conveyed one last, quick smile to bolster Bane's confidence, then he left the room.

Bane had changed into his usual monastic garb of loose-fitting dark shirt and pants. Standing, he added his tunic now and tied it closed with a fabric belt, happy to hide the brace. Just then, Talia squirted her way between Ducard and the doorjamb, a smile of triumph lighting the room.

"Where are you going, _habibi_?" She captured Bane's right hand and kissed his small finger, a digit that was permanently curled at the knuckle joint, having been injured during his last disastrous escape attempt. It was a familiar gesture she often provided as way of a salutation, especially now that she could not kiss his lips or cheeks.

"I'm going to meet Rā's al Ghūl with your father. Have you met him yet?"

"Not yet. He just got here yesterday, and Sangye told me not to disturb him. He said I could meet him once Papa returned." Persuasively she smiled up at her father. "May I come with you now, Papa?"

Ducard's scrutiny took in her unusually neat appearance. Bane had a feeling that she had somehow known his audience with Rā's al Ghūl was about to take place. Behind the mask, he smiled at her cleverness. During their two months here, Talia had quickly become the eyes and ears of the monastery, always aware of what was happening, and learning as much about everyone there as she could, no doubt under the guise of childhood innocence, her charms endearing her to everyone there and thus opening them to her discreet mining. Of course, she had passed her knowledge along to Bane, just as he used to tell her about the various prisoners in the pit.

"It's as important to know your enemies as well as you know your friends," he had once told her. "Sometimes it's more important."

Bane now wondered what Talia had already uncovered about Damien Chase.

Ducard's hand rested gently, briefly upon his daughter's dark head. "You may come if you promise to be on your best behavior."

"Of course, Papa."

"And you will speak only when you are spoken to. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Papa." This time when she smiled, she wrinkled her nose and barely stifled a giggle to defuse his solemnity.

Ducard could not contain his own smile at this, and he picked her up and kissed her cheek, a gesture she instantly returned. "How I have missed you," he said. "Come. We mustn't be late."


	12. Chapter 12

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Twelve**

The receiving room with its warm, muted glow of candles lacked furniture, save for one large, ornately-carved chair set back within an alcove at the far end. It rested upon a small dais in front of three full length windows with equally ornate design, and was flanked by single windows that allowed the last vestiges of evening light to steal inward. The chair's wood bore a golden hue, complimented by gold cushions. Until today, Bane had never seen anyone sit upon it and had been told that he was not to do so. Talia had once taken great delight in creeping over to the chair when they were alone and climbing onto its broad expanse where she then proclaimed that she was a queen.

But now the chair could barely be seen beneath the flowing scarlet robes of the man who was there ensconced. He sat with his hands together, as if in a posture of prayer, heavy rings on each ring finger, his eyes closed. Older than Ducard, his head was completely bald, and his mustache—silver, as were his eyebrows—was shaved from his upper lip but left long on the ends, drooping below his chin. An Oriental man from whom an aura of power emanated even in his peaceful attitude.

When Ducard quietly closed the door behind them, the man's eyes slowly opened. As his hands lowered to the arms of the chair, the candlelight burnished the golden silk lining of the mantle before the outer folds concealed it once more. He was alone in the room. Bane almost wondered if he had been there a short while ago when they had first arrived and had somehow blended into his surroundings.

Talia stifled a tiny gasp when she saw the imposing figure. She clutched Bane's hand and stood close to him. Stepping in front of them, Ducard put his hands together and bowed to the seated figure.

"Welcome back, my friend," Rā's al Ghūl said in Urdu.

"Thank you, Your Excellency," Ducard replied in the same language. "I was pleased to hear of your return as well. We have much to discuss."

"Indeed." His eyes reached beyond Ducard as he continued in English, his accent bearing a distinct Oriental flavor, "But first, introductions are in order. I am eager to meet our guests."

Ducard turned slightly to beckon Talia forward. She hesitated, still clinging to Bane's hand. Bane tried to let go, but Talia refused his attempts until her father gave her a pointed look.

"Do not be afraid, child," Rā's al Ghūl said with the hint of a smile, making Bane wonder if the man had children of his own. "I have heard that you are as brave as a lion." His dark eyes crinkled as he teased, "Perhaps I have been misled?"

Talia's jaw tightened and she stepped forward. With another leading glance from her father, she placed her hands together and bowed. "You have not been misled, sir. Papa will tell you."

Bane had the distinct feeling that Rā's al Ghūl already knew everything there was to know about Talia.

Rā's al Ghūl crooked a brown finger. "Come closer, Talia Ducard."

Talia swallowed and glanced at her smiling father before obeying. Bane watched with a mixture of pride and anxiety as she approached the regal figure, the creak of the floorboards providing the only sound in the room. When she stopped in front of the dais, Rā's al Ghūl leaned forward, beckoned her the final step so that she was within reach, the small smile still warming his face. With one finger he tipped Talia's chin up and stared into her eyes.

"Ah, yes…you have your father's eyes and your mother's beauty."

Talia gasped. "You knew my mother?"

"No, dear child. But I have seen her picture." He sat slightly back, his hand returning to the armrest. "I understand that you are already a great warrior. The men tell me that you learn quickly and have bested many of them."

Talia glanced back at her father, blushing, and did not deny the exaggeration.

"Perhaps in time," Rā's al Ghūl continued, "you will be as skilled as your father."

Talia beamed.

"Now return to your father while I meet your famed protector."

Talia bowed and backed away several steps before turning to Ducard. She tossed a pleased smile at Bane as her proud parent put his arm around her shoulders.

Rā's al Ghūl summoned Bane forward with a brief wave of his fingers, the bejeweled ring reflecting the candlelight. Bane did not advance as far as Talia had, and there he made his bow.

"Ducard and Choden have told me much about you."

This surprised Bane, for how much could Rā's al Ghūl have learned in the brief time he had been back? Perhaps, Bane told himself, Ducard had been in communication with the League's leader while he had been away. He wondered what had been said.

"You have endured much. Indeed a lifetime of suffering already in your one score and five years. But it is not your endurance that impresses me as much as your selflessness in safeguarding Ducard's child—indeed the League's child—for so many years amidst such corruption and violence. A lesser man would have exploited the child for his own gain, especially after the lamented death of her mother." Rā's al Ghūl leaned forward as if to share a secret. "Talia's importance to the League cannot be overstated, nor can the value of her preservation."

Rā's al Ghūl's words concerned Bane, though he did his best to conceal his unease. Surely the man was not intimating that they would in any way manipulate Talia themselves. No, he told himself; his years of protecting Talia had made him hyper-sensitive. That was all there was to his feelings.

"She's but a child," Bane heard himself protest.

"Yes." Rā's al Ghūl nodded, unblinking. "But she will grow, she will learn skills that will further the cause of justice. As will you, my young friend."

Bane could not help but interject, "But I am an adult. I've made my own decision. Talia hasn't made hers yet; she's too young to understand what it means—"

Rā's al Ghūl's displeased glance reached for but an instant to Ducard whose own discontentment Bane could now feel. He cautioned himself, fearful that his request to join the League would now be reconsidered in a less favorable light.

"Our decisions are not our own, Bane," Rā's al Ghūl used his name like a weapon, a glint now in his eyes. "Our decisions are the League's, and we must obey for the good of all, not for the narrow satisfaction of one individual. Rest assured, we are confident that in time the daughter of Henri Ducard shall willingly follow the path that has been prepared for her."

Bane's fingers twitched. How could anything be prepared for Talia when Ducard had only recently learned of her existence? Bane fought to keep the question to himself for now. There would be time for answers later, after he had blended into the ranks of these enigmatic men and earned their trust.

Rā's al Ghūl's expression softened, and an indulgent smile erased the edge of tension that had crept between them. "You have spent too many years with only one purpose, my friend. Here you will learn of a much wider world. Your allegiance to the child is indeed admirable, but now it is time for you to submit to her father's wishes for her future, as he is her true guardian and a man of greater wisdom than you. This point is crucial if you are to focus upon your own training…if you are to become one of us. Do you understand?"

Bane tried to smooth away the wrinkles of consternation from his expressive forehead. "Yes, sir. I understand."

Rā's al Ghūl relaxed back in his chair. "Then you may begin your training as long as Choden has cleared you to do so. He will continue to monitor your health closely. You must be able to meet our requirements. If you cannot, then you must find your own way in the world."

"Yes, sir. I won't let you down."

Rā's al Ghūl's nod was barely discernable, his expression hopeful but not completely convinced. His doubts, however, did not discourage Bane; they motivated him.

To Ducard, Rā's al Ghūl said, "I believe Temujin, if he is willing, would be an apt teacher for our young friend. Do you agree?"

"Yes, sir. I believe Temujin will be honored by such a request."

"He will remain with us?"

"He is not yet certain, Your Excellency." Ducard smiled. "Perhaps Bane can help me convince him."

"Indeed," Rā's al Ghūl said. "Temujin thinks highly of Talia's protector. I'm sure you can be persuasive."

"I will try, sir," Bane said, hiding his disappointment. Though he was pleased to have someone as familiar and steadfast as Temujin train him, he had actually expected Ducard to be his instructor.

"Very well," Rā's al Ghūl said with a slight bow of his head. "Then tomorrow, if Choden allows, you will begin."


	13. Chapter 13

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Thirteen**

Darkness came early and quickly in the mountains. Once the sun dipped below the peaks to the west, the monastery settled into peaceful repose. It was during this time—with the day's work done and the evening meal eaten—that the men socialized. On the ground level of the building where Bane and the others' living quarters were housed, the common area with its long table and large, roaring fireplace was the gathering place. Here men talked and told stories of their homelands or sang or played games of chance (though monetary gambling was forbidden, as was excessive wine consumption, the monastery's only form of alcohol). It was to this gathering that Talia urged Bane to accompany her after their audience with Rā's al Ghūl.

"You go, _habibati_," he said. "I'm too tired."

Her lips pursed in a disappointed pout where she stood on the threshold of his room, watching him.

Bane laughed. "That look won't work on me tonight. Why don't you ask your father to go with you? Or Jin?"

"Because I want you. You can tell everyone about your journey. I want to hear about your papa."

Bane's smile died behind the mask. "I'm afraid that's nothing I want to share with strangers."

"They aren't strangers. They're our friends. You know them all. Well, most of them, except for Damien and his men. And I want to give you your present."

"Present?"

"Yes, I made you a present while you were gone. But I wanted you to open it in front of everyone so they can see it, too."

Thinking fast, Bane countered, "But won't the others be jealous? Did you make presents for them as well?"

She smiled, indulgent, as if he were a daft child. "Of course not, _habibi_. They haven't been gone like you were." She sobered. "Jamyang said that if I made you a present, then you would come back to me." Absently she fingered the thin leather belt that kept her tunic closed.

Bane crouched in front of her so he could see her downturned gaze. He tipped her chin up so that their gazes met, and for the first time he fully saw the anxiety that had built in her since he had left.

Softly he said, "You didn't have to make me a present to bring me back here. I'll never leave you, _habibati_, not unless you want me to."

Her smile was distracted as her fingers trailed along the mask.

"After I'm trained, though, there will be times when I have to go away, just like your father. But I'll always come back."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Talia slipped her arms around his neck, and he drew her close, feeling guilty for his absence having troubled her.

To distract her and renew her happy mood, he said, "Why don't you fetch my present, and I will open it here? Then you can go downstairs with your father."

"He went to talk to Damien."

"Well, perhaps he will be back by the time I'm done opening my present." He knew his eyes easily reflected the smile that the mask hid from her because she smiled back. "Go on," he urged.

Talia scrambled off, and by the time Bane had sat upon his bed and removed his shoes, she was back. She raced across the room with a small box in hand and sprang upon the mattress, purposefully bouncing. She set the box beside him, then wrapped her arms around his neck from where she knelt behind him.

"Open it!"

He chuckled at her impatience and took the box into his lap. Twine had been used to secure the lid, and a small flower also made of twine and dyed yellow had been affixed for decoration. When he untied the bow and set the lid aside, Talia giggled and swiped the flower up to stick it upon his head. Bane laughingly protested, but when he tried to remove it, Talia thwarted his attempts.

"Look inside," she urged.

Surrendering to her decoration, he returned his attention to the box, eager to see what lay inside. He had never received a present before… Well, at least not one giftwrapped. There had been his stuffed bear, Osito, when he had been a boy, a toy his mother had sacrificed much to acquire through bribing the soldiers who resupplied the prison.

"You gave me paper?" he teased, pawing through the shredded material that hid the contents of the box.

"No, silly. Keep looking."

His fingers bumped against a couple of items, and he pulled the last of the paper away. There at the bottom of the box were two balls of yarn—one brown, one blue—and a crochet hook.

"I spun the yarn all by myself," Talia announced proudly. "Choden showed me how. Then I dyed it. And he helped me make the needle; I used my knife—the one you gave me in prison. Do you like it? It's just like the one Mama had, isn't it? Like the one you used to have, too."

Thoughtfully Bane turned the wooden crochet hook over and over in his hands, admiring it while his thoughts flew back to Melisande. He could see her so clearly, sitting at the front of her cell where the light was strongest, making a blanket for the baby that was growing in her belly. She had shown him how the craft was done, conveyed how working with his fingers could quiet his mind and make him—for a short time—forget about his troubles and stress while providing himself—and later Talia—with useful items to keep them warm.

Quieter now, almost tentative, Talia repeated, "Do you like it, Bane?"

He had to clear his throat before he could reply, "Yes, I like it very much, _habibati_. Thank you."

"Papa got me a present, too. See?" Talia pulled her sleeve up and thrust her left arm forward. There upon her tiny wrist was a thin leather bracelet affixed with a stunning sapphire. "It's the color of my eyes. That's what Papa said when he gave it to me."

"Indeed it is." Bane set the crochet hook in his lap and perused the smooth stone. "It's very beautiful, Talia." As she rested her chin on his shoulder and encircled him with her arms again, he added, "Just like you." He leaned his head against hers as he put the hook and yarn back into the box. "What shall I make first?"

"A blanket. Winter is coming, and Papa says it gets mortal cold here."

"But I have your mother's blanket to keep me warm."

"Then make _me_ a blanket." Impetuously she kissed the side of his mask.

"Very well. I will start tomorrow. For now, I'm going to lie down and read a bit while you find your father and enjoy the company downstairs."

"Are you sure you won't come?"

"Not tonight, little mouse. I'm too tired."

"When I come back, will you tell me about your papa?"

"If I'm still awake, yes. If not, then tomorrow. I promise."

"If you're asleep, I'll wake you up," she teased as she climbed off the bed.

He chuckled and watched her skip from the room.

###

Ducard's low voice reached through Bane's tenuous sleep, his admonishment penetrating the closed door: "No, Talia. It's late. He will be asleep by now."

"He's just reading. His lamp is still lit; I can see it."

"That doesn't mean he's awake. Now…enough. You should be in bed yourself, as should I. Come along."

Talia offered one last complaint before falling silent, no doubt after seeing a rebuke upon her father's face. Their footfalls retreated, and Bane drifted far away.

The dream came to him again, as it had every night since he had revisited the pit. He stood at the mouth of the shaft, but he was never alone there. Each time his victim was different. One night it had been his grandfather, another night Melisande, another night his father. This time it was Talia in his grasp, the utter blackness of the pit yawning beneath her dangling form. She pleaded with him not to drop her, her voice high and piercing, filled with fear. Terrified, he stared down at her but could not speak, could not soothe her. In vain he tried to pull her back to him, but his arms would not obey and his fingers continued to loosen. The more Talia struggled, the harder it was to maintain his grip until at last she slipped away from him and plunged downward, her screams barely heard over those of his own.

"Bane! Bane, wake up!"

The touch of her hands upon his shoulders, shaking him, brought him from the nightmare more so than even the urgency in her voice. With a violent shudder and a gasp, he awoke, his eyes instantly wide, staring up at Talia, his hands clutching at her arms, as if he could now stop her from that deadly fall. The lamp on his nightstand still flickered; he had fallen asleep before extinguishing it. Its light played against Talia's worried face. Before she could speak again, he sat up and clutched her to his bare, sweaty chest, relieved, his heart pounding against her.

"I heard you shouting," she said against his neck, holding him as tightly as her small arms allowed.

If she had heard him, then surely many others had as well. No doubt he had awakened her father.

"What were you dreaming about?"

Bane swallowed hard. "Nothing…it was nothing."

She slowly pushed back from him, her hands light against his chest. "You can tell me, _habibi_," she said with a tone of injury over his evasion.

"You should go back to your room." He kept his voice low in the hopes that the men who lived on either side of him—if awake—could not hear him. "Your father will be angry if he finds you here. Remember what he said."

"I don't care. You were afraid, so I came. I'll stay with you, then you won't have the bad dream again." Without waiting for permission, Talia drew her legs up onto the bed, reaching to pull her mother's blanket back so she could crawl beneath it into the pocket of warmth created by Bane's half-clad body.

Without thinking, he shifted onto his side to give her more space as he had done on their small prison cot. "Talia, you can't stay. You heard what your father said."

"He doesn't know I'm here." She reached for the oil lamp, but Bane's hand kept her from extinguishing the flame.

"Talia, listen to me—"

"It's okay—"

"No. _Listen_ to me." He refused to let go of her wrist. "It's _not_ okay."

Her attempt to break free was only half-hearted, his tone demoralizing her. She fell back against his pillow, her eyes large and hurt.

"Don't look at me that way," he groaned. "You know I'd let you stay, but you have to obey your father."

"Why?"

"Because he's your father. You must respect him."

"I do…most of the time." An impish smile escaped her, and her free hand reached up to his mask, her index finger tracing an imaginary outline of his lips, as if the gesture would silence him.

"Talia—"

"Tell me about _your_ father, _habibi_. You said you got to meet him."

"I will tell you tomorrow." He freed her arm. "You must go back to your room now."

"Please," she drew out the word. "If you tell me, I'll go back to my room after."

Exasperated, he propped himself on one elbow beside the pillow. He could not, of course, be angry with her, especially since he realized that she had artfully drawn his focus away from the nightmare. He studied her, waiting for her to submit and leave him, but of course she did not.

"Please," she whispered with that same smile.

At last he sighed, "Very well." And when she patted the pillow, he lay close beside her. She guided his arm behind her so that her head could rest against his bulging bicep.

As briefly as he could, he told her about the encounter with his father. She listened intently, showing no signs of sleepiness, the light behind her glistening upon her short dark hair; he wondered if she would let it grow to the flowing length of her mother's. As he talked, he gently stroked it, hoping the gesture would lull her to sleep so he could carry her back to her room.

At the end of his narrative, Talia asked, "How come you didn't go home with your papa?"

Bane considered lying in order to hide his pain and embarrassment, but instead answered, "He didn't ask me to. He has a family of his own now, and I'm a grown man."

"Didn't you want to meet his family?"

"No, not really. It's best if they don't know about me."

"Why? They would like you."

Bane tried to laugh. "Maybe when you are older, you will understand, _habibati_."

"What about your grandfather? Did you meet him?"

"Yes."

"What was he like?"

"Hmm. Well, let's just say you wouldn't have liked him."

"He was mean?"

"He was…unpleasant…and selfish. I told you what he had done to my mother."

Talia nodded thoughtfully, her fingers caressing Melisande's blanket. She drew it over his chest, as if its touch could console him. Of course she could sense his true feelings; he could see the awareness in her eyes.

"I'm so glad Papa isn't mean."

"Me, too." Bane raised himself back up on one elbow. "Now I have told you what you wanted to hear, so it's time for you to return to your own bed."

She softly moaned and buried her face in his chest. "But I'm nice and warm now. Aren't you? Can't I stay just this last time?"

"Talia," he used a stern tone that caused her to peek at him from beneath long eyelashes. "You can't keep disobeying your father. And more importantly, you can't favor me over him."

"What do you mean?" she pouted.

"Like earlier today when we arrived. You should have greeted your father first, not me. It hurt his feelings."

Talia lowered her gaze. "I didn't mean to."

"I know you didn't. But he is your father, your family, and I'm just—"

"You're family, too. Mama said so."

"Things were different then. Your father has been gracious enough to let me stay here. I don't want to give him any reason to send me away."

"He would never send you away."

"If we displease him—"

"No; he wouldn't. I wouldn't let him."

Bane put a finger to her lips, for her voice had grown stronger, adamant. "Let's not test him. Now promise me that you will not show me any favor over him when we are together."

"But I—"

"Promise me."

She frowned and tried to avoid his unyielding stare, at last muttering, "I promise."

He trailed a finger down her nose. "Thank you." He pulled the blanket back from her. "Now…off you go. Back to your bed. No more excuses."

She sighed in capitulation and moved with a sluggishness sure to try the patience of a saint.

"Good night, _habibati_."

She hesitated beside the bed and solemnly said, "Papa would never send you away. He knows I would hate him if he did."

Bane frowned. "Don't talk like that, Talia. Your father has done much for you…for us. You should be grateful. He loves you, and I know you love him."

Turmoil marred her dark face as she stared at her mother's blanket.

"Go back to your room, little mouse. I will see you in the morning."

Reluctantly, slowly she turned away and left him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Fourteen**

"What is the verdict?" Temujin's voice turned both Bane and Choden toward the doorway to Bane's room. The Mongol stood there, unsmiling, oddly grave.

Choden removed his latex gloves as Bane shrugged into his shirt. The Tibetan glanced toward his patient, said, "I would prefer that he have a few more days to regain more of his strength after his journey, but I know better than to expect compliance from this hard-headed one. So," Choden gestured fruitlessly, "he is yours, my friend. But he is to wear his brace at all times, and you are to give him frequent rests. He will tire quickly because of the mask's effect on his respiration, so for now you will limit his time to half the normal sessions."

"I'm fine, Choden," Bane insisted.

"You are fine only when I say you are fine."

Eager to abandon his fussing attendant, Bane started for the door, curious about Temujin's seriousness.

Temujin said nothing as they left the dormitory behind, heading not for the dojo as Bane had expected but instead along a corridor that would take them to the same room where Bane had had his audience with Rā's al Ghūl.

Measuring the Mongol's unusual silence, Bane ventured, "Were you strong-armed into this?"

Temujin grunted, said nothing for a moment, then, "I regret that you must settle for me as your teacher."

"I'm glad it's you; I'm honored." The familiarity of his teacher also relieved Bane, for Temujin would understand the challenges presented by his debilities better than any other instructor here. Yet Bane kept this feeling of relief to himself, afraid it might subject Temujin to undue pressure.

"As I told you before, there are those far more skilled than I who are also far more committed to the League than I. One of them should be your teacher."

"Rā's al Ghūl seems to think highly of you. When I met him yesterday, he said he hopes that you will stay with the League."

Temujin grunted then muttered something in his native language.

"Ducard wants you to stay as well."

"I will stay until my wife's last murderer is located by Ducard's assets, then I will leave to finish what was started years ago."

"I can come with you; I can help. I owe you that at least."

"You owe me nothing, Bane. We have helped each other equally since we first met in that God forsaken pit. What I do for you now, I do as a friend. And though I appreciate your offer, you will need to remain here in order to complete your training; where you stay and where you go are now no longer under your control but the League's. Besides, what I have to do, I will do alone."

"Will you come back after that?"

"I do not know."

"Well, I hope you do, and so does Talia. She would be crushed, you know, if you didn't stay with us. You're like an uncle to her. Well, what I imagine an uncle would be anyway."

Temujin glanced over his shoulder, and a slight grin crept into view. "It is no use, my young bull. I know Ducard and the League's figurehead have set you up to persuade me to stay. But, rest assured, that decision will be mine and mine alone."

"I meant what I said—Talia and I want you to stay, regardless of what anyone else wants. You're my friend. I have damn few."

"Friends are a luxury in our line of work, Bane. It is often better to have none. You have lost much already in life; I would hate for you to lose more."

Bane frowned, hoped that Temujin was not anticipating his own death in his efforts to avenge his wife. Wary of continuing this particular line of discussion, he instead asked, "Why aren't we going to the dojo?"

"First things first, my friend. Before you are able to prepare your body, you must first prepare your mind. So every day you will be up at six a.m. and meditate for at least an hour before we begin our physical regimen." He halted outside the receiving room. "Demons chase you in your dreams. I hear you at night, as do many others. You must learn to be at peace with yourself, including what others have done to you and what you have done to others. You must learn to be stronger than the demons."

Bane colored at the mortifying thought of others knowing of his night terrors. But there was no sense in denying them, especially when Temujin could perhaps help him overcome them; after all, no one here better understood what drove those nightmares. "It's not just at night," he admitted. "Sometimes I have…flashbacks…during the day."

"And what are these flashbacks about most of the time?"

Bane gestured to his mask. "The day this happened."

Temujin nodded thoughtfully and opened the door. He led the way into the empty room where, as usual, candles burned throughout. Bane wondered who lit them and if they stayed burning always. The scent of incense slipped through the medicinal fog of the mask. His attention touched briefly upon the large chair at the far end of the room as he remembered the imposing figure who had sat there yesterday. Where was Rā's al Ghūl now? And why had Temujin referred to him as a figurehead?

As they sat on the floor beside one another, Bane asked, "Is Damien Chase one of the reasons why you might not stay?"

"And what makes you ask such a thing?"

"It was pretty clear yesterday that the two of you aren't on good terms."

"He did not approve of me being allowed to leave the League. He felt I was dangerous, knowing all that I knew and no longer being tied to Rā's al Ghūl and his organization. But Ducard knew I would never betray them after I left."

"Ducard seems to like Chase."

"Chase is a very valuable asset to the League. As Ducard told you, Chase is his right-hand man."

"He's an American?"

"Yes. He is the son of an extremely wealthy man, a man who helps fund the League and utilizes its services on occasion. He has known Ducard many years. Damien was a troublesome boy and continued to be so as a young man. His parents tried to control him but could not. He attended Harvard, and though he graduated high in his class, he showed no interest in applying what he had learned. Against his parents' wishes, he joined the military—special forces. In skill, he excelled, but in following orders he did not. Eventually he was discharged—not voluntarily, mind you—but he could not assimilate back into society. Turns out his one true skill is in killing. His father finally acknowledged that and asked Ducard to take him on. That was three years ago."

"So you're telling me the League is actually made up of assassins?"

"The members of the League are whatever Rā's al Ghūl requires them to be. Assassins, spies, men of business, security. A wide range indeed."

"And what will I be?"

"Only time will tell. But I am sure of one thing—you will be capable of much more than Damien Chase, and it is for that reason that Chase will despise you."

"Despise me?"

"Yes. He very much enjoys his standing in the League…and in Ducard's eyes. He looks up to Ducard as a father figure, especially considering all that he feels is lacking in his own father. And by now he has heard all about what you have done for Ducard and what Ducard has done for you. When Ducard is not around, Chase can be like a petulant, jealous child. He will feel threatened not only by your personal relationship with Talia—a relationship that adds value to you in Ducard's eyes—but with your relationship with Ducard as well. And he will feel threatened by your skill."

"Why would he? I haven't been trained yet."

"Because, my friend, he will see—as do I—that you have the potential to one day replace him as Ducard's lieutenant. While Chase is indeed highly skilled in combat and covert operations, he lacks your intellect. Your wits coupled with your training will make you formidable indeed. Ducard may have a certain bond with Chase, but rest assured one's value to the League will outweigh any emotional attachment when it comes to Talia's father. He is a man of singular purpose."

Bane hesitated. "And what _is_ that purpose, Jin?"

"That piece of your education will come from Rā's al Ghūl, and no one else, least of all from someone on the fringes like me. I am responsible only for your physical training; at least the beginning of it. And speaking of that, we have wasted enough time as it is. Now…you will tell me more about these flashbacks and nightmares. Together we will unlock ways your mind can combat them. Repressing them will only be counterproductive. So before we begin our meditation, you will tell everything that you can."


	15. Chapter 15

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Fifteen**

"_Taijutsu_ will enable you to combat an armed enemy with nothing more than your body," Temujin explained that first morning. "You will learn how to use an enemy's own energy against him."

He and Bane stood side by side in the dojo, watching other men practice the "body skill" of _taijutsu_. While two instructors looked on, half a dozen students challenged one another, using a variety of grappling techniques in their efforts to best their opponents. Often the instructors broke in to verbally point out flaws in the students' methods or to physically demonstrate correct technique.

Bane watched in fascination, trying to understand everything at once, adrenaline already pumping through his veins at a splendid pace. His fingers twitched in anticipation of learning these new skills. In prison, Hans had taught him everything he knew about hand-to-hand combat, and Bane wished his friend were here now to see this type of fighting.

"As you can see, the contact is always close," Temujin explained. "Your opponent will most likely have a weapon—a gun or a knife—so you must keep him from using it, disarming him, if possible, by engaging him physically. You will use every part of your body—hands, feet, teeth..." He immediately caught his blunder and apologized before continuing, "This is not like the prize matches you fought in prison where the combatants were governed by certain rules, a code. No, in this there are no holds barred. It will be life or death. Speed and balance, even more so than brute strength. This will be the challenge for you, my young bull. You have a certain…hulking way about you. Very little grace, I am afraid. You are accustomed to might winning the day, but you will find that against men trained thusly, the size of the bull does not always matter."

"But out there," Bane gestured toward the world beyond the monastery walls, "I won't be fighting men like these."

"True enough, we are an elite force. However, do not be foolish in believing that you will not face men equally versed in various forms of combat. The world is full of men like Damien Chase who have had military training as well as other forms of attack and defense."

"Then what sets the League apart?"

Temujin considered him for a thoughtful moment, and Bane could tell he was deciding the best way to convince him of something he had yet to fully experience. "Do you remember when Ducard rescued us and you confronted Doctor Assad about your grandfather?"

"Of course."

"You threatened Assad's life with Ducard's pistol. You were ready to kill a man who had been your friend for many years, all in the name of justice for your mother. Your devotion to discovering the identity of her condemner impressed Ducard. Do you remember what he said to you then?"

Bane tried to think back to that great and terrible day, but because his memories of Assad were fraught with so much confusion and emotional conflict, he had to struggle to conjure up the exact words from that confrontation.

"'The will to act,'" Temujin reminded. "Ducard will also tell you that the _training_ is nothing, while the _will_ is everything. That will is what separates the League of Shadows from the mere mercenaries of the world. Those men are nothing but hired thugs, employed by men who use others to do their dirty work so that they do not have to sully their hands. _Skilled_ thugs, mind you, yes; but their will, their motivation will only go so far. Their own needs will always come before that of those who hire them. The League is different. These men have left their sense of self behind, and because the collective is more prized than the individual, they will never hesitate in their work, they will never fail to sacrifice their very lives if the mission requires it. That is why I left—my personal mission to avenge my wife was more important to me than the League. Men like Damien Chase cannot understand that; he has never loved another human being more than himself or his ideal."

"_I_ understand it," Bane quietly said.

"Of course you do, my friend." Temujin offered an appreciative smile. "And so does Ducard." He fell silent for a moment as they continued to observe the fighters, and his smile drifted away. Softly he continued, "But the reason for your understanding may also be the reason that you cannot ultimately remain here."

Surprised, Bane asked, "What do you mean?"

Stepping even closer, Temujin said, "Talia. Your love for her is—and always will be, I suspect—a force far stronger than any fraternity. Since her birth ten years ago, you have spent every day with one focus—protecting her. It is ingrained in you. But if you are to join these men, truly join them, you will have to put the League above even Talia. Chase and Rā's al Ghūl will not allow it to be any other way or you will be rejected."

Bane's fingers twitched, and his heart rate increased over this disturbing disclosure. "But what about Ducard? You can't tell me that the League is more important to him than his own daughter."

"In truth, I cannot tell you with any certainty about Henri Ducard's inner emotions, but believe me when I say the discovery of his daughter's existence has presented him with a monumental challenge. For years he thought Melisande—his great love—was dead. It was the anger and pain of grief that made it so easy for him to become what and who he is today. But Talia…her presence and what—_who_—it signifies to Ducard has certainly both overjoyed and troubled him. You better than anyone can understand his conflict—you are thankful that Talia has been united with her father yet sorrowful that you have to learn to let go of her. Letting go of someone you love more than your own life…" Temujin smiled sadly and faced the fighters struggling before them. "Well, you know I understand what that is like."

Bane, too, faced forward, his brow deeply furrowed as he tried to grasp all that Temujin had said and intimated. "Rā's al Ghūl referred to Talia as the League's child," Bane murmured. "He said she is important to them, as if she's a possession, not a human being." He did not conceal his irritation, for he knew with Temujin there was no need. "Why would he say such a thing, especially in front of her father?"

Temujin grunted. "Ducard took a risk bringing the three of us here. There is already a stigma about me. And you…well, yes, you saved his daughter and for that he has rewarded you, but you are still a stranger, an unknown quantity to him and the League. This is a closely guarded society, as you have no doubt gathered, with many secrets. For Ducard to introduce an outsider, he has potentially jeopardized not only himself but all others in their network. If another member of the League—even Chase—did the same, Ducard would not be tolerant. And to have also brought a child, a _girl_ child, even his own… Others may begin to doubt his ability to think objectively, to continue to put the needs of the many before the needs of the few. And such doubts can erode his status. If he fails to uphold the League's values, not only will he be subject to judgment, but so will you and Talia." Temujin glanced at him. "So I suspect Ducard has seen a way to protect his daughter by making her valuable to the League."

Bane bristled. "She's just a child, an innocent—"

Temujin's discreet hand on Bane's arm managed to hold him in check. "Would you rather see her cast out into the world? Perhaps sent to her grandmother?"

Bane stiffened at the thought of Melisande's brutal father. "Ducard would never allow that to happen. _I_ would never allow it."

"Then you must trust that whatever Ducard has in mind for his daughter will be beneficial to her. She has her path, and you have yours, my friend." Temujin freed his arm and straightened. "And right now your path awaits." He gestured toward the other students. "Shall we begin?"


	16. Chapter 16

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Sixteen**

The rest of the morning was spent in the dojo where Temujin painstakingly explained and demonstrated a variety of techniques. Bane expected to quickly master at least the most basic _taijutsu_, but his instructor proved him wrong. Though he indulged Bane's attempts time and time again, Bane always found himself pinned, sometimes painfully, by the smaller man. And to make matters worse, Temujin seemed to be playfully enjoying his display of superiority, as were the other students.

"Humility, my friend," the Mongol said into his ear while uncomfortably restraining Bane's arms behind him, "is a part of _seishinteki ky__ōy__ō_—your spiritual refinement, the first of the eighteen disciplines of _ninjutsu_. We have much work to be done there…as well as here." He tapped a finger against Bane's head, chuckled then freed his sweating student.

"If you separate my shoulders, meditation is about all I'll be able to do," Bane complained drily, carefully flexing his arms. He had separated his right shoulder during his first escape attempt from the pit, an old injury that he had almost forgotten until Temujin's efforts to turn him into a human pretzel had so rudely reminded him.

One of the doors to the dojo opened, and Akar—a thirteen-year-old Bhutanese boy—appeared. He stood upon the threshold, politely waiting to be noticed, fidgeting with his eye patch. Akar lacked not only his left eye but his left arm as well, having suffered the loss of both years earlier to a wolf attack that had also killed his father. The orphaned child had been found near death, and villagers had carried him to the monastery in search of healing. Akar had been here ever since, helping Jamyang with cooking and other domestic duties.

"Your salvation has arrived, Bane," Temujin grinned when he saw Akar. "Time for our midday meal, it would appear."

The scarring on Akar's face made his smile of assent slightly lopsided. He gave a small bow and retreated to resume his duties.

Bane watched him go while retrieving his shirt. During the weeks of his recovery, Bane had come to know Akar little by little. The boy was notoriously shy, even around Talia, no doubt because of his deformities, but over time he had warmed to Bane, spending a few minutes talking when he would come to Bane's room with fresh linens for his bed or, more recently, with his meals. Bane figured his own injuries made Akar feel more comfortable with him than with the physically sound men who otherwise surrounded him.

All in the dojo filed out, making their way with much talk and stress-relieving laughter to the common room in the dormitory. The welcoming scent of food—venison in particular—greeted them. Rations at the monastery were a combination of wild game, domestic animals, and foodstuffs carried in from various outside sources. Jamyang and Akar also tended a small greenhouse where herbs and other hardy produce grew with the help of artificial light. Talia took great joy in assisting them. As soon as Bane had been able to leave his bed, she had taken him by the hand to show him the greenhouse. After so many years of subsisting on very little in prison, seeing and tasting such fresh, organic wonders amazed them.

Bane heard Talia's voice now from above as she left her tutor and descended to the common room. But as she drew closer, Bane did not hear her light tread; instead he heard the booted footfalls of a man, an unfamiliar step. Curious, Bane waited for her instead of directly heading up to his room.

Down the last flight of steps came Damien Chase, a grin on his face and Talia upon his shoulders, laughing at something, her face alight in the room's dim atmosphere. As usual, her lyrical laughter drew smiles from all who settled around the large table. Bane's smile, however, died a quick death at the foreign sight of Talia with Chase. Chase witnessed this swift transition, and his own grin broadened.

"Bane!" Talia cried. "What did Jin teach you today?"

The mask's opiate was swiftly wearing off, and Bane blamed that for his instant irascibility. "I will tell you about it this evening," he replied as he started past them toward the stairs.

"Bane?" Talia's tone changed, and he knew that she sensed his mood. "If I come eat with you, you can tell me now. Bane…?"

"Eat with him?" Chase echoed. "You aren't eating with us, Bane?"

The question halted Bane in the doorway, his shoulders suddenly tight with tension, the pain from his injuries surging. He hesitated an instant before turning, the discomfort making his eyes sting. Chase was setting Talia down upon a bench at the table. Her gaze reflected regret at broaching this subject in front of the others. Though the men at the table were busy filling their plates, talk had subsided, and several glanced his way, including Akar who was pouring water into the men's glasses.

"I eat in my room," Bane said plainly, fingers twitching as Chase sat beside Talia.

"Because of the mask?" The American gave a slight snort. "I'm sure many here have seen worse. Your face won't cause any of us to lose our appetite. Will it, boys?"

An uncomfortable rumble of agreement came from those at table.

"It's what I prefer," Bane said coldly.

"Why, these are your brothers now, Bane," Chase said with exaggerated indulgence as his hand swept in an arc of inclusion. "There's nothing to be ashamed of. Join us."

Talia's worried eyes were large and filled with a mixture of hope and apology.

"Perhaps another day," Bane said then turned for the stairs.

He stalked upward to his room, fingers still restless, facial injuries searing. A part of him wanted to run to get to the morphine vial so he could inject the drug. But he forced control, focused on his breathing, tried to calm it while drawing upon the last of the mask's vapor. If he quickened his gait, he ran the risk of his swiftness being misinterpreted by those below.

He cursed himself for his reaction to Chase, especially in front of everyone; thankfully Ducard had not been present. Though Bane's immediate impression of Chase's inquisition was negative, he told himself that he did not know the man, that perhaps his invitation had been genuine. Yet Bane's years of experience reading the subtle signs of other men in prison told him that Chase had been baiting him, expressing dominance like a wolf pissing on a tree to claim his territory.

Bane knew, however, that his blood had been stirred not so much by Chase's posturing as by the sight of Talia with the American, smiling and laughing as she used to do in the pit when he would carry her upon his shoulders or back, her voice ringing in his ears, reminding him so much of Melisande. Such a reaction to the display was illogical to Bane; after all, since first coming to the monastery he had often witnessed other members of the League interacting with Talia in similar ways. Why had he immediately raised his hackles at the image of this particular man amusing Talia?

Then he remembered Temujin's words about Chase never loving anyone besides himself. Why would such a man even bother to entertain a child if not for selfish reasons? Yet, Bane wondered, should he operate merely upon Temujin's opinion? After all, the Mongol had been absent from the League for two years and had known Chase for only one prior to that. Perhaps Temujin's view was understandably tainted.

Bane hurried into his room. By the time he reached for the bottle in the bathroom medicine cabinet, his hands were shaking so badly that he almost dropped it. He compelled himself to pause, shut his eyes, took a deep breath. Then, with a sterile syringe, he drew forth the dosage. As he extricated the needle, the bottle slipped from his trembling hand and shattered against the sink. Shards of glass and spatters of morphine scattered across the small room. Bane cursed, louder than he desired.

"Are you all right?" Aker's voice caused Bane to jump and stifle another oath.

"I'm fine," Bane nearly snapped.

Akar set down the food tray on the bedside table and came to the door of the bathroom. His gentle brown eye measured everything in an instant. "If you would like," the boy offered, his English tinged with a Bhutanese accent, "I can administer the injection. I know how. Choden showed me…even with just my one hand."

Bane brushed past him. "I can do it." Sitting upon the bed, he hastily injected the drug into his vein and closed his eyes, waited those torturous seconds.

Akar set about cleaning the spill in the bathroom.

Bane opened his eyes as the morphine rode in upon him with its relief, taking away his anger as well as his pain. "I can do that, Akar. Go back downstairs."

"It will only take a moment."

Bane would have again rebuked him, but he did not want the boy to return downstairs with tales of his boorishness. So, as Akar made quick work of the spill, Bane changed his splattered clothes.

"Did you cut yourself?" Akar asked as he emerged from the bathroom.

"No."

"Was that the last bottle?"

"I'm afraid so."

"I will fetch more for you."

"Akar," Bane's call halted the boy at the door. "There's no need for it right now. This evening before supper will be sufficient."

Akar nodded then lingered, his gaze cast downward, frowning.

Eager to be alone, Bane asked, "What is it?"

Shifting his weight self-consciously, Akar frowned deeper. "Do you think we'll ever get used to it?"

"Used to what?"

Akar faltered, almost turned away then said, "The way they look at us."

Bane sighed, pushed aside his own troubles. He gestured. "Come here…away from the door."

For a moment he feared that the boy would flee, but at last Akar shuffled back to the foot of the bed. Bane almost invited him to sit down but knew the boy should return to his duties downstairs.

Quietly Bane asked, "When you were attacked by the wolf, it was because you were trying to save your father, wasn't it?"

Akar's narrow eye flashed at him in surprise, for he had never spoken to Bane about that day. "I—I don't remember."

"I think you do." Bane paused but saw that the boy would not offer more, and he wondered if perhaps he should not have ventured upon this ground. "When you told others the story, you told them that your father died protecting you. Isn't that right?"

Another disturbed dart of the eye, then Akar nodded shallowly.

"But it was the other way around, wasn't it? The wolf attacked your father first, and you tried to save him."

Akar shuffled one foot, murmured, "I was too small."

"But you tried."

The boy nodded, sniffed, swallowed hard. "How did you know?"

"Because you are here and your father is dead. I think the wolf allowed you to live because you were brave, because you were protecting your family."

Akar looked fully at him now, his jaw loosening. Bane saw the survivor's guilt—the same guilt that reflected in Talia's eyes—before it slightly dissipated from the boy.

"So," Bane said, "the next time one of the men looks at you that way, remind him that you once faced down a wolf. I'd hazard that none of them can say the same."

Akar did not smile often, but his pleased expression now changed his entire appearance so much that the scarring seemed diminished. He stood straighter.

"Now go on back downstairs or Jamyang will scold you."

Akar rose on the balls of his feet, as if Bane's compliment somehow made him larger, more mature. For a moment he seemed at a loss for words then managed, "Thank you, Bane." He hurried to the door but there halted once again, his hand on the frame. He appeared to struggle with what he wanted to say before asking, "You aren't afraid of Damien, are you?"

"No."

Akar smiled again. "Good." Then he left, closing the door behind him.


	17. Chapter 17

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Seventeen**

Over the next week, Bane progressed in his training, but the pedestrian pace frustrated him. Temujin had to constantly remind him that patience was required, that no one gained such skills in hours, days, or even weeks. The mask provided further vexation, hindering Bane's breathing during his exertions, often forcing him to the sidelines. Multiple times he wanted to rip the cursed thing off and throw it at his teacher, especially when Temujin assured him with maddening calm that the next version of the mask would no doubt improve upon this flaw.

"You don't know that," Bane had snapped.

"You must have faith," Temujin insisted. "Choden and Ducard will not give up until you have what you require."

"What if 'what I require' is impossible?"

Temujin shook his head. "There are few things that are impossible if one has the drive and resources to acquire it." He sat beside Bane on a bench. "Let us take a break. Another hour of meditation before we resume. You need to relax and refocus. You must learn to control these negative impulses, otherwise you will not advance in the way you so desire."

At least once a day Ducard and Chase—together or singly—would come to the dojo, watching from the wings, speaking quietly only to one another, their gazes intent upon the students. Ducard often adopted his now-familiar stance—back straight, head up, hands lightly gripping the lapels of his tunic or vest. Bane would try to read his gaze, but Ducard was skilled at hiding his reactions to what he witnessed before him. To Bane's chagrin, Ducard's visits unnerved him. He found himself trying to impress Talia's father, thereby assuring him that his decision to allow him to join the League was not a mistake.

Although Temujin viewed this desire as a waste of time, he found a way to use Ducard's presence—along with the single, silent appearance by Rā's al Ghūl—as a way to further Bane's education. He explained, "I want you to use such opportunities to hone your focus. You need to learn how to shut out all distractions."

Sometimes one of those distractions was Talia. She would find some excuse to slip away from her tutor and her studies and escape to the dojo. Usually she knew better than to make her presence overtly known for fear of being sent back to Sangye. She would mainly hang about in the shadows, but now and then she could not contain her enthusiasm and would either call encouragement to Bane or step forward to challenge one of the students or instructors. Occasionally, to break the intensity of the session, the men would indulge her, as they did this day, allowing her to display her quick, agile moves against opponents who willingly submitted to her skills.

"The young absorb things so much quicker than adults," Temujin pointed out to Bane as they watched Talia's swift, well-aimed kicks, listened to her passionate war cries. "They have no true sense of fear and thus they fight with fluid abandon. You, too, must learn this skill, this total belief in yourself and your abilities. You must learn never to question them. To question them is to weaken them."

"Well, well, well," Damien Chase's voice filled the dojo. "What do we have here?"

Bane and the other students, who had been watching Talia from the sidelines, turned to see Chase standing just inside the door.

"So this is where Sangye's wayward pupil escaped to."

With a surprised gasp, Talia scrambled up from the mat where her opponent had feigned submission. Quickly she adopted a contrite expression, her hands folded in front of her.

Chase sauntered up to her, grinning. "I figured I'd find you here, princess."

"Please don't tell Sangye, Damien. I promise I'll go back in just a minute."

He brought a thoughtful hand to his chin. "I'll make you a deal, princess. If you can pin me in less than five minutes, I won't breathe a word that I saw you here."

"That's not fair," Talia scowled. "You're too big."

"Hasn't your instructor taught you that size does not matter?"

Her cheeks reddened.

Chase knelt in front of her and held his hands out to either side. "Is this better?"

The men around Bane and Temujin laughed.

Talia eyed the American warily, then could resist his grin no longer, flashing one of her own just before she leapt at him with a shout.

Bane watched as Chase pretended to have great difficulty fending off Talia's attack. She kicked and parried Chase's soft blows, dancing around him on light feet, obvious delight shining upon her fierce countenance. Bane tried to take pleasure in the sight of her so alive and happy, but instead he felt uneasy and agitated, fingers twitching.

At one point Chase allowed her to nearly pin him, but then he broke free and scooped her up. She squealed in surprise as he smoothly flipped her head over heels and cushioned her fall to the mat. There he pinned her, laughing along with everyone except Bane as she struggled in frustration.

"Let me up!" she demanded.

Bane started to step forward onto the mat, but Temujin's swift hand clamped onto his wrist. The Mongol shot him a sharp, staying look.

"Let you up?" Chase echoed. "All right then."

He stood, drawing Talia with him, and lifted her upside down above his head. Her half-hearted protests quickly turned to giggles. Blood rushing to her face, she looked for Bane, who forced a smile for her benefit.

Temujin stepped onto the mat, saying, "All right, little one. It is time for you to leave us. You must get back to your studies, and we must continue with ours."

"Now, now, Genghis Khan," Chase scolded as he set Talia on her feet. "You know the old saying: all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."

"Then what is your excuse, Chase?" Temujin said with a sarcastic smile.

"Ah, very droll, Genghis. Since you seem to hold me in such low regard, perhaps you could give me a refresher course. Or have you grown soft, lying about in prison?"

Temujin's smile fled. "I have no time to waste on you."

"Oh, come now, Genghis. I'm sure Talia would enjoy watching you school me, wouldn't you, princess? One quick match then she promises to return to Sangye, yes?"

Talia grinned. "Yes, I promise, Jin."

Temujin seemed on the verge of refusing, but then said, "Very well," drawing pleased responses from the others, including Bane.

Talia hurried over to stand beside Bane as the two men stripped to their waists. She smiled up at him. "No one can beat Jin, can they, _habibi_?"

"I hope not," Bane muttered into his mask, his reply lost among the interested voices around them.

With the combatants' upper bodies exposed, it was clear who carried the greater muscle mass. To bolster his confidence in Temujin's chances, Bane harkened back to the day Temujin had arrived in the pit prison. The Mongol had easily dispatched two larger prisoners who had attacked him. Shortly after that, he had defeated—with Bane's help—those same men who sought revenge with the aid of two others.

Temujin and Chase now faced one another, bodies crouched, hands at the ready. The spectators fell silent, even Talia, as the two men sized one another up, unblinking. All sarcasm had left the big American, replaced by cold intensity.

Chase made the first move, springing forward, but Temujin eluded him. The Mongol did not attempt a counterattack, instead simply waiting, drifting backward. Bane could see the caution in his friend's eyes, the respect for his opponent's abilities, as he bided his time. Chase, however, was not so patient. He struck again, and this time Temujin met his attack. Their arms and legs worked together to strike, parry, strike again, but neither man could gain an advantage. They separated, sweat now appearing on their foreheads. Chase circled, Temujin gliding gracefully around to always keep his enemy in front of him, attention never wavering.

For the next five minutes, the two struggled to throw and pin one another. Twice Temujin immobilized Chase for a brief moment, but somehow the man discovered an escape route each time.

"I see you've managed to maintain your abilities," Chase said. "A pity you don't have the dedication to put them to good use."

"So you do not consider instruction to be of good use?"

"Guess that depends on who you're instructing."

The anger betrayed by Temujin's face cost him speed in his next strike. This brief hesitation left him too open, giving Chase the opportunity to grasp his right arm with both hands and turn into him. This move unbalanced the Mongol enough for Chase to throw him onto his back. Chase never lost his grip on Temujin's arm as he dropped to the mat with him. In one fluid movement, the American's left leg crossed over to pin his foe's left arm while at the same time locking against Temujin's neck. Simultaneously Chase restrained his opponent's right arm against his own chest while his right knee drove into Temujin's back, forcing the smaller man into an awkward arched position which, in turn, increased the vice-like hold around his neck, choking the Mongol.

Bane expected Temujin to break the hold, but no matter how the Mongol tried, he remained pinned, his face suffusing to purple, the cords in his neck strained. And even worse, Chase showed no signs of freeing him. The man's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, teeth bared in his efforts to keep Temujin on the mat. Bane's glance darted to the two other instructors. Concern there, but neither made a move nor said a word. The other students continued to stare at the combatants. Talia shifted beside him, her fists clenched, her face awash in confusion.

"Yield, Jin!" she cried at last, plaintive.

But Bane could see that Temujin had no such plans. And still Chase refused to release him.

"Let him up!" Bane barked, startling the spectators.

Talia looked at him, both worried and grateful.

Chase ignored the order. Temujin choked and gasped, angry eyes bulging.

Bane stormed onto the mat. Grabbing Chase by his waistband and right leg, he ripped him away from Temujin, flung him to the side, scattered those nearby. Bane did not wait for Chase to recover; he charged after him, fell upon him, landed several quick, punishing blows before Chase threw him off. Around him, the dojo had erupted with shouts, including those from Talia and Temujin, but Bane deciphered no words, heard only noise as the rage welling within him found its outlet. He launched himself low at Chase, catching only one leg as the man dodged. He twisted, but Chase did not topple, too well balanced. Instead he fell upon Bane, grappling for a hold. Bane knew to stay down meant to ultimately succumb to Chase's superior ability to pin an opponent; he could not successfully fight Chase with _taijutsu_. No, he needed to employ a tried and true method—brutal, uncompromising force.

Summoning more strength than Bane knew he had, he roared to his feet with Chase still latched onto his back. Bane reached behind his head, both hands locking at the back of Chase's neck. Then he doubled over, throwing the American onto the mat, shaking the floor. Chase, however, still had a grip upon Bane's shirt, pulling it halfway off in his fall. The American tried to use the fabric to blind Bane. With a backward jerk that half tore, half slipped the garment free, Bane freed himself. Before Chase could drop the shirt, Bane snatched it from him, shoved it over the American's head like a hood. Thus sightless and flailing, Chase suffered a flurry of blows that drove him to the mat. Bane dropped to his knees so Chase could not grasp his ankles and throw him, his fists striking again and again against the American's head.

One of Chase's arms eluded Bane's two-handed blows. He managed to clutch the back of Bane's neck, started to drag him downward, closer to his shrouded head so the punches lacked full range and force. Again keen to avoid ending up on the mat, Bane reared back, fought free of Chase's hold, and thus unwittingly allowed his opponent to slip from beneath him.

Both men rose to their feet at the same time, eyes ablaze, faces red. Bane's right fist flashed out, but Chase blocked the blow with his left forearm, struck with his own right, a shattering blow to the temple that staggered Bane. A second blow, this from below, striking Bane's mask, driving it painfully upward, a small hiss escaping from the compromised the seals. His eyes watered. With sudden fear, he tried to retreat beyond range, but Chase remained close. The American's next swing hit the mask full on. Paralyzing pain flooded Bane, stole his vision. His groan turned to a rising growl as he swung wildly to fend off another blow to the mask. Warm, salty blood filled his mouth. From somewhere beyond the blur of agony, he heard Talia's voice, frightened, shrill.

He no longer saw Damien Chase. Instead he found himself back in the pit, attackers all around him, pressing, suffocating. They dragged him downward, down into blackness, endless, painful blackness, crushed him into silence.


	18. Chapter 18

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Eighteen**

From far away, Bane heard Talia singing to him, soft and tenuous. He sensed her anxiety, tried to awaken, tried to find her, but the drugs would not allow it. Just barely, he felt her touch upon his arm, feather-light, moving back and forth. Beneath his arm, a familiar fabric—Melisande's blanket. Then the rumble of a male voice. Bane tried to deduce to whom it belonged, tried to answer, to speak, but there was a pinprick, and the waves rolled in, passing over him, bore him away.

###

A melody drifted to him, a strange, pleasing sound, high pitched, thin yet mellow. A song with no voice, no words. A language of its own, one Bane had never heard before. Its strangeness intrigued him, stirred something deep within, a powerful emotion. At first he thought the music a product of opiates, but then dismissed it as simply a dream, realizing that the medicinal fog no longer surrounded him. Yes, a dream, a pleasant, soothing dream.

"Bane?" Talia's voice, close beside him. She took his hand. "Can you hear me?"

The music was still there, but it continued beyond her words, from somewhere beyond his room. Perhaps not a dream after all? But what could make such a sweet sound?

Bane closed his fingers around Talia's, and she gave a small gasp.

"Bane?"

His eyelids fluttered open to see her beside his bed, seated in a chair which she immediately abandoned to sit close to him on the mattress, smiling with relief. Morning light struggled through the window across the room. To his surprise, bandages covered most of his face.

Though painful to speak, he croaked out, "What's that sound?"

"You mean Passat's violin?"

Bane listened a moment longer, marveling at the pleasant melody. He had had little exposure to music besides that of singing—his, Melisande's, or Talia's. Occasionally, while watching the BBC on Doctor Assad's battered television in prison, he had caught snippets of music, but nothing as beautiful as this single violin. Why had he not heard this before? The instrument's voice mesmerized him, momentarily made him forget his pain.

Talia quietly asked, "Maybe he will come play for you?"

"No," Bane hastened. "I can hear it from here." His fingers drifted up to gingerly touch the bandages upon his face. "Where's my mask?"

"It got broken. Lao is fixing it, though. He said he will be done this morning."

"Broken?"

"Yes, in the fight. Don't you remember?"

"No."

"You were bleeding, so Choden had to bandage you again. He said the bandages have to stay on until the bleeding stops and you can wear the mask again."

A knock sounded at the door to his room. When Bane invited the visitor in, he expected to see Choden, but instead Akar appeared upon the threshold, a garment folded and tucked beneath his single arm. Seeing Talia, the boy hesitated.

"Come in," Bane gestured, his head dully aching.

Akar shuffled forward. "Jamyang has mended your shirt."

"Mended it?"

"Yes." Akar's shy eye flicked at Talia before staring at the floor.

"It got torn when you were fighting," Talia explained. "Don't you remember?"

Bane frowned as images returned from yesterday. "Yes, I guess so."

"Talia," Akar said. "Sangye says you are late."

"I'm going to stay with Bane this morning."

Bane scolded her with his gaze. "No, you aren't. You must study. As should I."

"Choden said you are not to train until you can wear the mask again."

"I will talk to him about it." The bandages made it difficult to speak, as did the fresh pain from his prison wounds being reopened. "Now go on before you get in trouble."

She frowned and slowly slipped from the bed, still holding his hand. "I'll come back as soon as I can."

"I know." He wished he could smile at her. Instead he gave her hand a gentle squeeze before letting go.

With a glance at Akar stationed near the foot of Bane's bed, Talia reluctantly left the room, closing the door behind her.

"Would you like me to put your shirt away or will you be wearing it this morning?" the boy asked.

"Just put it there on the bed. I'm getting up."

Setting the shirt down, Akar hurriedly objected, "But Choden said—"

"I'm not lying in bed all day. Choden be damned." He sat up and reached for the shirt. "Tell Jamyang thank you for this."

Akar watched him carefully pull the garment over his head. There was something in the boy's eye that drew Bane's curiosity, and he wondered why he lingered.

"Is there something else, Akar?"

The boy cleared his throat, shifted his weight. "I was there, you know."

"Where?"

"In the dojo yesterday…when you fought Chase. I saw everything."

Bane avoided his scrutiny. "Then you saw more than I."

"I've never seen anything like it. Did you learn to fight that way in prison?"

Bane wished Akar would leave, for he did not want to discuss his defeat.

"Chase was so surprised; I could tell," Akar continued, his eye bright with excitement. "And so was Ducard."

"Ducard?"

"Yes, he was there, too. He came in close to the end when you…well, when you threw all those punches." Wonder rang in Akar's voice now, intriguing Bane. "If it had been anyone but Chase, I think you would have killed him."

"Well, I couldn't have come too close to that if I'm the one lying in bed with my face bloody and bandaged."

Tentative, Akar slipped around the bed, drew closer. He was smiling almost secretively, proudly. Slowly Bane began to realize what Akar was telling him.

"You don't remember, do you?" Akar ventured. "Choden said you might not."

"Remember what?"

"The fight."

"I remember most of it."

"But not the end?" This came as more a statement than a question.

"No, not really."

"You blacked out? That's what Temujin said…that it happens sometimes to you."

Bane grumbled, "Jin has no business telling anyone that—"

"He only told Ducard. I overheard them talking afterward. Temujin was defending what you did."

Bane met the boy's admiring eye. "What did I do?"

"You beat Chase. Well, you would have if Ducard hadn't stopped the fight. But you broke his nose and knocked him down; you nearly knocked him out. No one could believe it." Akar shook his head, smiling. "Now I know why Temujin calls you 'young bull.' I don't think anyone could have stopped you if your mask hadn't been damaged."

Stunned, Bane stared at him, wishing he could remember, but all that came to him were flashes of sound, brief glimpses of color, the taste of blood, the rush of voices, voices from the pit that day Talia had climbed. Yet perhaps those voices had, in fact, been from those in the dojo.

Tentative, Bane asked, "What did Ducard say?"

"He wanted to know why you two were fighting. Why a _student_ would be fighting someone like Chase. He was very displeased, especially that it had 'gotten out of hand.'"

"He didn't blame Jin, did he?"

"He didn't have to; Temujin took full responsibility."

"Damn it." Bane pushed back Melisande's blanket, his body stiff and bruised, his movements retarded by soreness in his back. "I need to talk to Ducard."

"No," Akar quickly said. "You would be insulting Temujin if you do."

"How?"

"Because he is your teacher. A teacher always takes responsibility for his student. You will shame him."

"To hell with that. Jin had nothing to do with my actions."

"You shamed him once. It would be unwise to do it a second time."

"Shamed him? How?"

"You came to his aid when he was fighting Chase."

"Chase wouldn't let him up. He was choking him."

"But it was not your place to interfere." As if suddenly afraid that he had insulted Bane, Akar lowered his gaze before murmuring, "I'm glad you did, though. I'm glad you broke Chase's nose."

Bane hesitated. "Why? Everyone else around here seems to look up to him."

"Don't mistake respect for affection." Akar looked at him again, and a grin slipped to his scarred face. "After yesterday, others now respect you." The grin drifted away into sobriety. "When they look at me, they see weakness. Before yesterday, they saw the same thing when they looked at you. They did not know. But now they do. Everyone does. Everyone has been talking about it, though not around Ducard," the grin returned, "or Chase."

Bane could not deny the warmth of satisfaction spreading throughout him, easing some of his pain. He reached for his shoes, saying, "I should talk to Jin."

"He is not here."

Bane straightened in alarm. "What?"

Akar took a step backward, swallowed, obviously sheepish for having revealed this bit of news. "He left just before sunrise."

"Why?" Bane stood, and Akar took another retreating step.

"Word came last night about his wife's killer.

"He left alone?"

"Yes."

Overtaken by a wave of sadness, Bane sank to the edge of his mattress, stared down at his bruised and abraded knuckles. His right wrist ached.

"Did he say if he's coming back?"

"Not to me. I would think only Ducard knows, but perhaps even he doesn't." Akar frowned. "I will miss him. He was always kind to me. I missed him very much when he left us the first time."

Bane nodded.

Akar tried to infuse optimism in his voice when he added, "I think he will return. He will want to see you through your training."

"Why would he when I shamed him?"

"Because he cares about you…and Talia. Jamyang says that after Temujin avenges his wife's murder, he will need a purpose, and Jamyang thinks that purpose is you, especially now that you have shown everyone that Damien Chase is indeed mortal."

"_If_ Jin survives to make it back." Bane frowned. "Ducard should have sent someone with him."

"Temujin would not allow it."

"I should go. I could catch up with him—"

"You can't; not in your condition. Not without the mask."

"Talia said Lao should have it repaired today."

Akar shook his head. "You can't leave now, not when you have just started your training."

"My teacher is gone."

"You will have another."

"I don't want another, damn it."

They both sighed in frustration.

Softer, Akar said, "You cannot just leave, Bane. If you do, you might not be allowed to return."

Bane scowled, remembering what Temujin had said about his life now being controlled by the League. Yet, after what he had done last night, after they had witnessed his uncontrolled violence, perhaps no one would care if he left.

He got to his feet again. "I have to talk to Ducard."

"Please, Bane—"

"Leave me alone, Akar."

"Please… If you want to talk to Ducard, don't confront him; let me tell him that you wish to see him…here, in this room. It wouldn't be good if others see you confronting him, especially so soon after the fight and after Temujin left. You must be careful now more than ever. It is better if others see him coming to you, so they think it is his doing, not yours."

The idea of such orchestration irritated Bane; his fingers twitched, and the pain of his injuries swelled.

"I'll go find him," Akar assured.

Bane hesitated before grumbling, "Very well. But after you do, find Lao and tell him to hurry up with my mask."


	19. Chapter 19

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Nineteen**

Bane waited impatiently for Ducard, pacing the small room. Had Akar decided not to relay his message? No, if the boy was anything he was reliable. In the meantime, Bane wished Passat still played his violin, for he missed the music's calming quality.

When a knock came at his door, he was disappointed to see Akar again instead of Ducard. The boy carried a small tray with his breakfast.

"Did you tell him?"

"Yes."

"Then where is he?"

"He is with..." Akar frowned, avoided his gaze. "He is with Rā's al Ghūl."

"Did he say he would come?"

"He did not." Akar set the tray down on the bedside table. "Perhaps by the time you are done eating, he will be here. I will help you take off the bandages. Choden will be here soon to examine you and apply a fresh dressing."

Bane was tired of needing Choden's attention. He had hoped all of that was behind him now. He cursed his impetuous actions of the previous day. If not for that, he would be with Temujin right now. Ducard should not have let the Mongol leave alone. Bane feared that his attack on Chase would weigh heavily in Temujin's decision on whether or not to return. If only he could have at least spoken with his friend before he had left.

"You must eat," Akar encouraged. "Jamyang said if you do not, then I am to tell him."

Bane scowled at the pureed breakfast, felt his stomach protest and his mouth ache at the prospect of swallowing anything.

Akar waited patiently near the bed, repeated, "I will help you with the bandages." When Bane remained across the room from him, Akar added, "You want to be finished before Ducard gets here, don't you?"

The boy's persistent efforts to mollify him finally broke through Bane's stubbornness. After all, he told himself, none of this was Akar's fault; it was unfair to take his frustrations out on the kid.

Once the bandages had been removed, Akar dutifully retreated from the room.

By the time Bane had finished eating what he could, Choden arrived, carrying with him a small box. The Tibetan wore a curiously eager expression.

"I have good news," Choden smiled, holding up the box. "These arrived last night."

"What is it?" Without the bandages or mask, Bane's voice seemed unusually loud.

From the box, Choden pulled a thin package—small and square—that hinted at a disk-shaped content. "It is a fentanyl patch. Fentanyl is one hundred times more potent than morphine and can be used in conjunction with morphine. Of course, there are potential side effects, so we will need to monitor you carefully. There should be less nausea with this drug, so that will be an improvement."

"How long does it work?"

"About seventy-two hours. The first patches will only have a low dose so we can see how you tolerate it. I am most concerned with it affecting your breathing. But if it is going to do so, I expect it to present within the first seventy-two hours. So no physical exertion until that is determined. Understand?"

Choden's pointed stare left no room for argument, so Bane reluctantly agreed.

"Remove your shirt. We will apply this to your upper arm."

"How long will it take to work?" Bane eagerly asked as he dragged the loose-fitting, long-sleeved garment over his head.

"Eight to twelve hours." Choden produced a slightly amused grin. "In everything patience, my friend."

Once the patch had been affixed, Bane submitted to Choden's examination, followed by treatment and bandaging. Choden was unusually quiet, and the fact that he did not broach the subject of his fight with Chase spoke volumes. Just as his attendant finished, Ducard arrived. Choden hastily retreated, avoiding either man's eyes.

Heavy silence lay between the two men, Bane standing near his bed, Ducard just inside the door, which Choden had discreetly closed behind him. Bane swallowed the last taste of blood. His fingers twitched. He wondered if Ducard awaited an apology, but Bane realized that he had no regrets about the fight except for what it may have cost Temujin.

"Jin is gone?"

Ducard nodded, his face still unreadable. "He is."

"Is he…did he say if he is coming back?"

"He knows that he is welcome."

Bane frowned at the evasion but nodded. "It wasn't my intention to bring any dishonor to him. He is an excellent teacher…and a good friend."

"Then what _was_ your intention, Bane?"

The coldness of the question surprised Bane, stirred a touch of anger deep inside, but he squelched it, as Temujin would want.

"My intention," Bane measured his words carefully, "was to help my friend."

"But did your friend need help?"

Bane reached for his brace and slipped it around his waist. "I thought he did."

"In truth, you did not _think_ at all; you reacted. A foolish, dangerous response to what you perceived as danger but what was, in fact, no danger at all. Did you really think Damien meant to injure Temujin?"

Bane hesitated. "Yes." When Ducard gave him a disappointed look, Bane could not keep from adding, "You weren't there when it happened; you didn't see what I saw."

Ducard stepped closer, skeptical eyes stormy, brow low. "And what did you see?"

"He wasn't just trying to defeat Jin; he was trying to humiliate him."

"Even if that were true, it was not your place to intercede. Temujin's humiliation came not from Chase, but from you, his student."

Bane stared at him, the words stinging. "I couldn't just stand there."

"But that is exactly what you should have done. You must remember your place. You must exercise humility, a virtue that you must master as you must master all of your impetuous impulses."

Bane's anger caused his fingers to fumble while buckling the brace. In a quiet growl behind the cursed bandages, he repeated, "You weren't there." He lowered his attention to the frustrating buckles.

Ducard said nothing until Bane had secured the brace and forced his gaze back to him. Some of Ducard's anger had drifted away. He studied Bane for a long moment, making him uncomfortable.

"You would prefer me as your teacher?"

The intuitive question shook Bane, making him stammer upon his response, "Temujin is a good teacher. I can wait for him to return."

"I wasn't referring to now; I was referring to the beginning of your training. Are you angry that it is not I who instructs you?"

"No, of course not." Bane crossed his arms, suddenly not knowing what to do with himself.

"Your physical training will take months, Bane, as will your academic studies. You will progress farther and faster if you have consistency in who teaches you. I am gone from here more days than I am here. I thought you understood that."

"I do."

"I regret that Temujin left, but I have high hopes that he shall return. And I have those hopes because of you. You have somehow cultivated a deep loyalty in Temujin, something that such a man does not give freely. It is a gift few possess, to inspire others. It is an intangible bond that can hold men to you in even the most desperate situations."

Bane's agitation drifted away with Ducard's surprising words, and he felt almost foolish for being angry with the man.

"Chase is not your enemy, Bane."

Startled, Bane straightened his aching back, quickly searched for a retort, but Ducard continued before he could find any words.

"He is your brother now, like it or not. And if you exercise the humility of which I spoke, you can learn much from him." Ducard paused. "Your first lesson is accepting that Chase and others besides you and I will care for my daughter. Your path lies in a different direction from hers."

Though Bane knew that Ducard was undoubtedly correct, the words injured him all the same. Somehow he felt that Ducard was intimating that he was unworthy of Talia now, that he was a mere foot soldier, not the man who had protected her for her entire life. But he could not dismiss what he felt was still his duty to her…and to her mother.

Unwittingly, Bane's glance drifted to Melisande's blanket on the bed, and he felt Ducard's attention follow.

"I promised her," Bane murmured, more to himself than Ducard. "I promised Melisande that I would protect Talia. I've done it for so long that it's a part of me; it's instinctive. She was frightened when Chase pinned Temujin and wouldn't let him up. I knew she wanted me to help him… _I_ wanted to help him. I'm not blaming her; it was my choice."

Ducard stepped closer and picked up Melisande's blanket. Bane shifted, uneasy and unsure. Ducard handled the fabric with great care, his gaze caressing it, his voice soft, "When I learned of her father's part in her imprisonment, do you know what my first impulse was?"

Bane shook his head, barely breathed.

"I wanted nothing more than to destroy him, to do to him what you did to your grandfather."

Bane was finally able to ask the question that had troubled him since his rescue, "Why didn't you?"

A distance had crept into Ducard's voice, and his attention remained upon the blanket. "Because I knew I had to look beyond my own grief. I could not allow it to control me as it had ten years ago when I was separated from Melisande. And when I looked beyond it, I saw an opportunity, a way to benefit the League as well as a way to exact a measure of revenge. It was a decision I could not have made if I had allowed my passions to dominate me."

"What did you do?"

"I struck a bargain with Melisande's mother. Without her help, my daughter might not have survived after her escape, so naturally I felt indebted to her."

Though some seven years has passed since he had met Melisande's mother, Bane remembered Maysam well. After his back surgery, she had come to the medical clinic to visit him, made aware of his plight by a letter from her daughter that had been smuggled out of the prison. As a reward for his care of Melisande, the beautiful woman had offered him freedom, but Bane had instead elected to return to the pit, unable to abandon Talia and her mother, unconvinced that anyone but he could ensure their safety. And though Maysam had promised to make every attempt possible to see them all free, no such relief had come to them. Bane, however, did not doubt that Maysam had never given up trying. And once he had been rescued, Talia had told him of her grandmother's promise to always remember him, and that she would help him should he ever require her assistance.

"Maysam knew there was murder in my heart for her husband," Ducard said, "and though she could not forgive him for their daughter's death, neither would she see him killed. But what she _could_ do—and has done—is funnel some of her husband's wealth to the League. By doing this, she supports her granddaughter while ensuring that I will not seek vengeance upon her husband. For me, what greater justice could there be than to take from Melisande's father what he prizes the most, while at the same time benefitting the League?" A ghost of a smile touched Ducard's face.

Bane nodded, unsure whether to admire Ducard for his resourcefulness or be disappointed in his willingness to let Melisande's father live. His gaze lingered on the blanket, though he tried not to make his concern about Ducard permanently reclaiming it so obvious.

Methodically, Ducard began to fold the blanket. "And that is what you must do when your passions try to control you, Bane. You must have the ability to step back and assess the options that are available, not just options that benefit you, but ones that will benefit the League. Thoughts for yourself must always come last, no matter how unpleasant that may seem. You have spent your entire life merely surviving. It is time that you embrace this greater purpose." He finished folding the blanket into a square, smoothed it against his broad chest, waited until Bane's eyes lifted from the blanket. "You must assure me now, Bane," he continued in a deep, grave tone, "that you will never again allow yourself to succumb to the impulses that yesterday threatened one of our brethren."

Bane shifted his weight, tried to focus upon Ducard's steely gaze, but again his attention slipped to the blanket. His fingers twitched.

Sensing Ducard's waning patience, at last he nodded. "You have my word."

A small smile eased Ducard's expression, and at last he set the blanket back down upon Bane's bed.


	20. Chapter 20

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Twenty**

Bane spent the rest of the day studying with his tutor, Deshmukh. Focusing upon mathematical principles and geography helped take his mind off his conversation with Ducard and distracted him from the physical discomfort caused by yesterday's fight. By late afternoon, he had begun to feel the effects of the fentanyl as it smoothed away the dull ache in his face. But it also made him a bit drowsy, so before he could nod off in his books, Deshmukh dismissed him to his room to nap. About that time, though, Lao arrived with his mask.

Choden accompanied Lao into Bane's room. After removing Bane's bandages, he remained to supervise Lao's mask fitting.

"You cannot wear it," Choden reminded. "We will see if it functions properly and examine the seals to ensure they are seated correctly, but then off it comes."

"I know, Choden, I know," Bane grumbled as his attendant unwound the gauze.

After several uncomfortable minutes during which both Lao and Choden secured the mask and then fussed about him, asking questions and making adjustments, Bane found the mask to be performing as it had prior to the fight. The opiate vapor, coupled with the fentanyl patch, actually succeeded in completely masking the pain for the first time since he had suffered his injuries. As if liberated from a second prison, Bane's spirits rose.

"This is all very well," Choden said with a note of caution, "but this should also be a lesson to you, Bane. You are only as invincible as your mask allows you to be. Like it or not, you are at a disadvantage when in a fight. It is best if you remember this next time." Then Choden quickly glanced at Lao and cleared his throat. "Not that there will be a next time. I mean, not a next time like this last time." The Tibetan scowled to himself and stood from his chair. "All right then. Thank you, Lao. Remarkable work as always."

The man bowed, unsmiling as usual.

Bane thanked Lao, and as the Chinaman left the room, Choden turned back to Bane where he sat on the edge of his bed. When Choden reached to remove the mask, Bane reared back.

"Can't I wear it just for a short while?"

"No. I want you to remain bandaged until at least tomorrow. Don't you listen to me, boy?" Choden shook his head and again reached for the mask's fasteners. This time Bane surrendered.

As Choden once again irrigated and debrided his damaged nose and mouth, Bane was thankful for the fentanyl. The procedure also gave Choden the chance to lecture him without being interrupted, which he did at length, not just about yesterday's fight and the damage it had caused him, but about anything else that came to mind.

"Now this evening," Choden said as he began to apply a swath of bandaging, "after supper, you will come to the common room with the rest of the men. You will not hole up here in your room like some lone wolf, feeling sorry for yourself."

"I'm tired already, Choden. The fentanyl is kicking my—"

"I will be the one kicking your ass if you don't go. And don't think I can't. You don't have to stay all night down there, but you do have to make an appearance. I have no doubt that Chase will be there, bruises and all. You must show that you are willing to accept whatever punishment they believe Ducard has meted out and that you sincerely want to become one of them. Hold no grudge. That is only negative energy that will do you no service."

As difficult as it was, Bane forced himself to listen and not offer another opposing word while Choden finished with the bandages.

"And once you have healed up a bit," Choden continued, "you should begin eating with the others downstairs."

"No."

"Yes." Choden stood, removing his latex gloves with a defiant snap. "It is time for you to quit hiding. I am not telling you to stand atop the fountain in Piccadilly Square in London and take off your mask. I am telling you to share your meals with men who are your brothers now."

"You're assuming the sight of me won't make my _brothers_ lose their appetites."

"You know enough about these men to know they have the stomach for much worse. Am I not right?" He stepped into the small bathroom to wash his hands. When Bane had not answered by the time he left the sink, he gave him a pointed look. "Hmm?"

"Yes, yes, no doubt you are right."

Choden grunted. "Of course I am." He gathered up the medical supplies and returned them to the small cabinet in the bathroom. His air of authority drifted away. "I am sorry that you have lost Temujin as your instructor."

Bane frowned. "Me, too. But I understand why he had to go. I only wish that I could have gone with him to help."

Choden grunted again. "Patience, my friend. There will be many opportunities for you to use your skills once you have proven yourself worthy." He raised an expressive eyebrow at him before turning for the door. "And you can begin proving that by coming downstairs this evening."

###

An early winter storm battered the exterior of the monastery. Bane could hear the icy mix tapping on his window before he left his room that evening. The wind had little difficulty slipping inside the wooden structure and chilling the atmosphere even more than usual, so Bane made sure he wore an extra layer of clothing, including a scarf that he wrapped twice around his neck and tucked beneath his rustic brown tunic. As a final measure of warmth, he draped Melisande's blanket around his shoulders. This decision gave him a moment's pause, for he worried that such open displays in front of Henri Ducard might yet encourage the man to reclaim his wife's blanket. But, considering his own unease at the prospect of going downstairs so soon after the fight, he dismissed his concerns about Ducard's reclamation because he wanted the consolation that the blanket always afforded.

A fire was already roaring in the common room's large hearth, and the majority of the monastery's population had gathered by the time Bane made his appearance. A few glanced his way, but no one broke away from current conversations to engage him. When Talia arrived a moment later with her father, she rushed across the room with a smile on her face.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, the light from the fire dancing in her large eyes as she took his hand.

"Better."

"I'm so glad you came down. Passat is going to play for us tonight."

This news pleased Bane and eased some of his discomfort in the situation.

Ducard trailed up in his daughter's wake, and his smile—while not as effusive as Talia's—was warm and inviting. Bane was relieved that he seemed to take no notice of the blanket.

"Choden told me about the fentanyl patch," Ducard said. "It has given you relief?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, good. I would hate for you to miss Passat's performance. He has been without proper strings for some time now, so we have sorely missed his music these many weeks."

Akar stepped over to them, artfully balancing a wooden tray with three earthen mugs. He, too, looked pleased to see Bane. When Talia started to reach for one of the mugs, Akar mildly scolded, "The blue one is for you. You don't want Bane or your father to drink your hot chocolate, do you?"

"Chocolate?" Talia echoed. "You can't _drink_ chocolate."

"Yes, you can," Akar insisted, his cheeks slightly flushed. "And Jamyang added fresh butter cream to it as well."

"Try it, my dear," Ducard encouraged. "It was acquired especially for you, made from the finest cocoa beans in the world."

Amazed by all of this, Talia took the mug into both hands and smiled. "It'll keep my hands warms."

"And your insides," Akar said with a small smile. "You must try it. I helped make it." Then when Talia started to lift the mug to her lips, he quickly cautioned, "Be careful; it's very hot."

"Blow on it to cool it," Ducard said. "Then just sip it so you don't burn your mouth."

The three watched closely as Talia sampled a tentative sip. Her expression immediately opened in wonder. "It _is_ chocolate!"

"Of course it is," Bane chided. "Akar wouldn't lie to you." He gave the boy a private wink, which deepened Akar's color and made him shuffle his feet.

"And what has Jamyang made for the rest of us?" Ducard asked, taking one of the mugs.

"Mulled wine," Akar said. "Made with your favorite port, sir."

Ducard sampled the drink and came away smiling. "My compliments to Jamyang. Tell him that he must come out of that kitchen to share a glass with us. And you must pour some of that chocolate for yourself."

"I will, sir. Thank you, sir." Then Akar's timorous gaze went to Bane, and he spoke in a private voice. "Will you be able to drink yours, Bane? I'm afraid it's only coffee; Choden told us you aren't to have alcohol because of the…" He frowned, his voice trailing off.

Bane took the last mug from the tray, along with the straw discreetly placed alongside it. "I will let it cool a bit first. Then, if Choden doesn't try to spoil things any further, I look forward to drinking it. Thank you, Akar."

Akar allowed himself the joy of watching Talia take two more sips of her chocolate, followed by her delighted sounds of approval before he reluctantly returned to his duties.

Chairs from the table were scattered about the room, though most had been situated closest to the fire. Passat sat tuning his violin, the delicate instrument a safe distance from the heat source. Most of the men had been standing in small groups, drinking their spiced wine, their loose body language revealing their ease as they talked, but as it became apparent that Passat would soon be ready to begin, the men leisurely chose their seats, some even sitting on the floor. Thinking of his back, Bane settled into a chair closest to Passat; he wanted to witness up close how the man was able to bring forth such beautiful sound from those four, thin wire-like strings.

Damien Chase and Rā's al Ghūl arrived in the common room just then. Chase's sharp eyes immediately swept around the room, coming eventually to Bane. Bane tensed as their gazes locked, and a rush of emotions from yesterday's fight washed over him. Chase wore a bandage across the bridge of his nose, and the flesh around both his eyes was a deep shade of black and blue. Bane kept satisfaction away from his expression lest Ducard look his way. For his part, Chase gave him a small, cocked smile and a tiny, enigmatic nod before taking up a seat close to the fire. Rā's al Ghūl, meanwhile, crossed over to a chair beside Ducard. Talia settled between her father and Bane, looking particularly pleased with the gathering. Choden claimed the chair on Bane's other side.

Though Bane avoided looking at Chase again, concentrating instead upon Passat's tuning, his thoughts remained upon the American. While he admitted a touch of smug gratification over the damage to Chase's handsome face, he tempered such conceit by reminding himself that Chase was not the only one present wearing bandages. During the day, when not consumed by his studies, Bane's thoughts had returned to yesterday's fight. Bits and flashes had trickled back from the blackness that had hid his final actions. A blind rage that had empowered his blows. Even now it caused his fingers to twitch and momentarily ball into fists until he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, settling himself, listened to Talia chatter away with her father. Her voice, her happiness eased him.

Bane's attention slid to Talia's father, who was laughing at something his daughter had said. A couple of times today, while reflecting upon the fight and Ducard's words that morning, Bane wondered if Chase had orchestrated everything that had occurred yesterday. Perhaps he had baited Temujin into a fight for the sole purpose of goading Temujin's student into defending the Mongol. But this theory Bane dismissed, for how could Chase possibly know ahead of time the reaction he would achieve by besting Temujin in front of him?

As Passet began to play, the sweet voice of the violin pulled Bane's focus away from his conjectures, and silenced everyone in the room. The first piece started out quiet and slow, but the second movement picked up tempo and volume, Passat's fingers dancing along the strings, his bow nearly a blur. The purity of the instrument's sound, the way Passat seemed fully engrossed in his performance mesmerized Bane. He had never heard anything so beautiful in his life. It were almost as if the violin were a living creature, full of emotions that only Passat could interpret and share. Those emotions not only passed through Passat's skilled hands but manifested upon the man's face as well—sometimes his eyes closed as if consumed by intense passion or perhaps a vision; other times various lines creased his forehead; or his mouth opened just slightly as if about to emit a word or sound. To think that this man was also a trained killer confounded Bane, for it seemed so incongruous.

For nearly an hour, Passat entertained them with classical compositions from Mozart, Sibelius, Boccherini, and other composers whose names he supplied in between pieces. Often Talia could not contain her delight and would clap her hands or tap her toes in rhythm. At the end of each piece, she was always the first to burst into applause.

"Papa, you promised to dance with me," she said at one point, getting to her feet, her hot chocolate long gone. She stood between Ducard's knees, facing him and taking hold of his hands.

Amused, Ducard smiled at her. "I was hoping you had forgotten."

"Of course not," she said, leaning back to encourage him to his feet.

"Perhaps a Strauss waltz, Passat?" Ducard raised a querying eyebrow at the musician.

"Of course," Passat answered with a smile of his own for Talia.

"It has been many years since I've danced," Ducard told his daughter. "So you must forgive my clumsiness."

Those seated closest to Passat pushed their chairs back to offer more room for the dancers. All who watched grinned at the happy child as she towed her father into their midst. When Passat began to play, Ducard swept Talia up into his arms, one hand clasped with hers, her arm extended to the side, his other arm wrapped around her to hold her close. With more grace than should have been possible for such a large man, he began to waltz the child around the loose circle of spectators.

Many of the men got to their feet, as did Bane. Now and then one or more of them would throw out comments to the dancers—some encouraging or flattering Talia, others offering good-natured barbs at Ducard for his lack of style. Even the stoic Rā's al Ghūl had a conservative smile for the occasion.

Bane was mildly surprised by Ducard's willingness to appear a bit absurd in front of his men. And he was impressed. How confident Ducard must be to show this side of himself to those who were subordinate to him. Thinking back on his years in the pit, Bane realized that he had not been far different from Ducard in this respect when it came to Talia. How silly he must have looked to the rough prison population when he used to run up and down the stairs of the _bawdi_ with Talia upon his back or shoulders, the girl squealing with delight. He had ignored most of the derisive comments from fellow inmates, but on occasion he had silenced his detractors with his fists. It had been those displays of violence that curbed the tongues of others who later considered making fun of his devotion to Talia's happiness.

Before the waltz could end, Hafif stepped forward and asked for Talia's hand. The Syrian had no idea how to waltz, but Talia did not seem to mind, and she laughed along with him as he awkwardly tried to imitate Ducard's steps. Then, one after another, men took their turns whirling Talia around the makeshift dance floor. By then, most everyone was on his feet, the warmth of goodwill spilling throughout the dim room, the golden flicker of the fire painting all of them.

Again Bane compared this scene to his time in prison. Except for Doctor Assad, Bane had not allowed anyone else to hold Talia. One time—when she was a mere infant—she had been snatched from his arms in the stepwell by a prisoner who had planned to use her to extort money from Melisande's family. With the help of Hans and another ally—a big Nigerian named Yemi—Bane had quickly retaken her, but after that, it had been several years before Melisande allowed her daughter to leave her cell. Now, watching Talia change hands time and time again, Bane marveled at—and appreciated—the difference between the men of the pit and the men of the League.

The last to claim his dance was Damien Chase. When he cut in on Choden, Bane detected a barely discernable hesitation in both Chase and Talia, as if the man was afraid of being rebuffed and Talia was unsure of the invitation. But then that brief moment slipped past, and she allowed the American to hold her in his arms. Bane took care not to allow his jealousy to show in his eyes.

Akar's laughter reached Bane's ears, and he found the boy next to him, watching Talia with a mixture of wistfulness and joy.

Smiling behind the bandages, Bane leaned next to Akar's ear so he could be heard over the music. He urged, "Go dance with her."


	21. Chapter 21

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Twenty-one**

"I—I don't know how to dance," Akar stammered. His one good eye had widened in shock at Bane's suggestion. The shadow thrown by Damien Chase's dancing form blurred the boy's eye patch so that for a moment it was not perceptible to Bane.

"Neither does Talia," Bane said with a nudge of his elbow.

"But…" Akar nodded toward his missing arm.

"Hurry before the song is over."

Chewing his lower lip, Akar flicked his attention back to Talia in Chase's arms.

"Go on."

"I—I can't."

Bane nearly called out to Talia to come and claim her new partner, but he feared embarrassing Akar by drawing everyone's attention to him, so instead he simply urged again, "Go on. Don't you want to?"

"Y—yes, but—"

"Then go on before it's too late."

Akar wavered. Just when he screwed on his courage and started to step out of the shadows, Passat finished the waltz with a flourish of his bow. Everyone broke into applause. Akar's shoulders slumped in disappointment, and before Bane could say anything more, the boy slipped away toward the kitchen, no doubt to retrieve more drink for the gathering.

Talia escaped Chase's hold and hurried over to Bane, her whole being alive with joy. As he reclaimed his seat, she climbed onto his lap, her body wonderfully warm from her exertions.

"Why didn't you dance with me, _habibi_?"

"I'm afraid I don't have as much energy as you this night." He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, pleased to have her to himself again.

"Did you see Damien's eyes? Choden says he looks like a raccoon."

"And do you know what a raccoon looks like?"

"Yes, of course. I've seen pictures. They look like they are wearing a mask. They have black fur around their eyes. Do _you_ know what they look like?" she asked with a sly smile.

He chuckled and gave her a squeeze. When Ducard reclaimed his seat, Bane expected Talia to go to him but was pleased when she remained. Most of the men returned to their places, conversations resuming.

Before Passat could place his violin in its case, Bane asked if he could hold the instrument. The crusty German eyed him with concern, but when Talia added a heartfelt, "Please," Passat reluctantly obliged. Bane carefully examined the polished wood and gently touched the strings.

"Where did you learn to play?" he asked in German—a language acquired from Hans in prison.

"I learned as a boy. My mother insisted I would learn either the violin or the piano, and since it is much easier to carry around a violin than a piano…"

The man's joke surprised Bane, for thus far in their limited relationship, Passat had not been particularly genial. But now he almost smiled after his comment, though perhaps the smile was more for Talia's benefit. Yet Bane sensed something different in the man as he handed back the violin. Passat actually met his gaze, and this time without the coldness that had chilled their time together during their mission to find Bane's father. And as the night progressed, Bane noticed the same subtle change among several others, men who interacted with him instead of simply sending perfunctory platitudes his way as they had in the past whenever their paths crossed.

Drowsiness from the fentanyl began to weigh Bane's eyelids, yet he found himself reluctant to leave the gathering. Akar and Jamyang kept everyone's drinks topped off, and when the boy brought Bane a new mug, he revealed a conspiratorial smile before moving on. When Bane slipped the straw between the bandages, he discovered the heady taste of spiced wine.

"That doesn't smell like coffee," Talia said, now nearly asleep.

"Hush," Bane said, then winked.

Sangye stood from a nearby chair, yawning and stretching. "It is past my student's bedtime, is it not, young lady? And it is past mine as well."

As Talia started to protest, Ducard added, "Sangye is right. We will not be able to rouse you in the morning, and then we will have a fight on our hands. So…off you go."

"I'm too tired to climb the stairs, Papa. Carry me."

Ducard chuckled. "I'm afraid not, my pet."

"I'll carry you," Bane offered. "I'm ready for bed myself. Then your father can stay down here longer."

Ducard bowed his head slightly. "Thank you, Bane."

Bane wrapped Melisande's blanket around Talia's shoulders, then crouched and offered his back. "Right, then. Climb aboard." Carrying her would be no small task, considering the soreness still controlling his body from the fight, but he appreciated the opportunity to show the others that he was undaunted.

With a giggle of triumph, Talia clambered up to ride piggyback. She bid all those around her good night and received warm wishes in return.

Once upon the stairs, Talia's weight relaxed fully against him like a ragdoll, revealing her sleepiness. Her soft, warm cheek rested against his shoulder as she murmured on about her dancing. Her mother's blanket rustled as she drew it close to her face.

"I wish Mama could have been there to dance with Papa."

Bane's hand closed upon hers. "She was."

Talia's room was a contrast to the Spartan décor of Bane's room. Hers was larger and had two windows. Besides a desk like Bane's, there was also three chairs at a small table, which was used for her studies with Sangye as well as for other purposes, such as games or puzzles. There was a half-finished jigsaw puzzle spread there now, one which depicted London, a sight that made Bane think of his own mother...and his half-sister, for that was where Ducard said she now lived. How ironic. There was also a bookshelf and a modestly-sized chest, ornately carved with dragons, from which spilled a handful of toys, some brought to the monastery from unknown places, others—like the horse Bane had carved for her during his convalescence—made by members of the League. Akar had contributed as well, having sewn a doll for her, a monumental task for one who possessed but a single hand. It was the only thing in the room that reflected Talia's feminine gender. She slept with it every night and had created a number of dresses to interchange with the plain monastic attire that Akar had initially provided.

As Bane turned back her blankets and located the doll, Talia quickly changed into the nightclothes that Jamyang had made for her, lined with the softest wool from the monastery's own herd. She crawled into bed as Bane revived the low fire in the hearth to combat the storm still raging outside. With the fire crackling hungrily over the fresh fuel, Bane returned to sit on the edge of Talia's bed. As she settled against the pillow, he brought the blankets up to her chin. Sleep pressed heavily upon her, but he could see that she was not quite ready to succumb.

"I had so much fun tonight," she quietly said. "Didn't you?"

"It was very enjoyable."

"Next time you must dance with me."

He chuckled. "Jin told me that I lack grace, so I doubt I would be much of a dancer."

Talia's smile tempered. "Do you think Jin will come back?"

"I don't know, _habibati_. But I sure hope so. Now…you must get some sleep."

He started to stand, but Talia's voice halted him.

"Bane…" She frowned and fidgeted with the edge of her blanket. A troubled line marred her smooth forehead.

Bane touched her fingers. "What is it, little mouse?"

The frown deepened before she looked up at him. "Is Damien a bad man? I mean…like the ones in prison?"

"What makes you ask that?"

"Your fight. Is that why you fought him—because he's a bad man?"

The concept of Damien Chase being anything less than a friend and an admirer seemed to injure her deeply, so Bane hastened to assure her, "No, that isn't why I fought him, _habibati_. Of course not. He wouldn't be here if he were a bad man; your father wouldn't allow it, would he?"

"I guess not," she murmured, not completely convinced. "But then why did you fight him?"

"I thought he was hurting Jin."

She nodded slightly, her frown returning. "So did I. But…why would he? Isn't he Jin's friend?"

"Well…I'm not sure you could call them friends. But neither are they enemies. Sometimes relationships can be a bit…complicated."

"Papa was mad at you, wasn't he?"

Not wanting her to think that everyone whom she cared about was at odds with one another, he said, "Maybe a little, but we talked, and I promised to take better care of my temper." He smiled and tapped her nose. "Don't worry about any of this, _habibati_. It's all in the past now. We have all learned a lesson."

This wiped the anxiety from her face, and she smiled and captured his hand, studied him for a moment before saying, "I miss seeing your smile."

The words caught him off guard, pained him, especially when he saw the familiar shadow of guilt creep back into her beautiful eyes. He forced himself to quickly recover, saying, "Well, it is still here, especially when I look at you." He leaned down and drew her hand against the bandages, as if he could kiss her through them, hoping that his eyes revealed his smile.

His gesture succeeded in restoring her happiness, and she quietly said, "I love you, _habibi_."

"I love you, too, little mouse. Now…" He tucked her doll beneath the blanket with her. "Get some sleep."

Reluctantly he left her for his own chilled room. After starting a fire, he stripped off his clothes, wrapped himself in Melisande's blanket, and retreated to his bed. He did not fall asleep immediately, though. His thoughts drifted from Talia to the time spent downstairs. It had been a night unlike any other. He had felt almost included in the gathering, a feeling that now comforted him more than the fire. Choden and Ducard had called these men his brothers; indeed, even Chase had called them that. Could he truly think of them that way now? Did they think the same of him now that they knew he was no helpless charity case?

Bane tugged Melisande's blanket up over the bandages and began to drift off. Perhaps, he thought, when he had said good-bye to his father, he had not lost his family after all. Perhaps he had, instead, gained a new one.


	22. Chapter 22

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Twenty-two**

As soon as Choden declared him fit, Bane resumed training, eager to redeem himself in Ducard's eyes.

Xing Lao assumed the role of his primary instructor, and though Bane respected the Chinaman's abilities, it took some time for him to feel comfortable with his new teacher. If Lao had a sense of humor, he kept it hidden, buried beneath a thick accent. His exterior was that of a middle-aged man, but Bane knew Lao to be barely forty. Years spent as a political prisoner in his homeland had prematurely aged him.

Lao was more quick-tempered than Temujin, and—when in the dojo—he always carried an engraved Yantok that he wielded freely upon his student if Bane's efforts fell short of expectations and demands. And though such blows were never more than stinging, absorbing them in various regions of his body and in front of others tested Bane's tolerance. But Lao did not need to tell Bane that such was the purpose behind this abuse. After Bane's fight with Chase, Lao appeared determine to prove that Bane could indeed curb his reflexive desire to lash out whenever struck. He swung the stick more freely when Bane was most vulnerable, either physically or mentally, such as when he could not master a certain technique and thus kept being thrown to the mat by his opponents. At the first hint of Bane's frustration, the Yantok would strike. The occasional laughter or knowing looks from other students further challenged Bane's self-control.

A month into this partnership, Ducard and Chase both left the monastery. Ducard said he expected to be gone four to six weeks, Chase even longer. A part of Bane was relieved to see them go, for now he would feel less pressure. Talia, of course, was heartbroken by her father's absence, so Bane did his best to distract her and keep her spirits up. And when she crept to his room the first couple of nights after the dormitory had fallen dark and quiet, he did not protest, for he easily sensed her loneliness as well as her fear that her father would never return.

But when she came to share his bed on the third night, he felt duty-bound to gently remind her of her father's rules.

"He won't know," she whispered the same words she had used time and time again as she lifted his blankets and crawled in close to him.

"Talia—"

"We'll both be warmer. It's so cold tonight."

Bane flinched. "Yes, just like your feet."

She giggled and snuggled tightly against him, pulling the blankets over their heads.

Bane hushed her. "Someone will hear you. You're going to get us in trouble."

"No one will tell Papa."

"You'd better hope not." But his scolding tone died away as her warmth started to work through his clothes.

She gave a contented purr, her cheek against his shoulder. Languidly her finger trailed across his mask. "I don't like to sleep by myself; it's cold and lonely. And, besides, I don't understand why Papa doesn't want me to sleep with you. I've told him over and over how we shared the same bed in prison."

"But this isn't prison. And you're not a baby anymore; you're eleven years old."

"I know. But what difference does that make?"

Bane sighed through the mask, pulled the blanket away from his face so he could breathe easier. Talia did the same, her hand drifting back to rest against his chest, the firelight playing upon her ever-lengthening dark hair.

"Don't be mad, _habibi_," she murmured.

"I'm not mad."

"Then why don't you want me to stay?"

"It's not that I don't want you to." He sighed again, trying to think of a way to make her understand. "But you being here isn't…appropriate."

"Why not?"

Bane could hear the pout in her voice now, and he frowned. There was no comfortable way to address this, especially when he himself found contentment in her defying her father's rule.

He shifted onto his side so he could see her better, with less of the mask obstructing his view. "Remember back in prison when you took my anatomy book, and you found the pictures of a man and a woman—their differences? The day you realized you were a girl?"

"Yes, of course I remember."

"And I explained those physical differences."

"Yes, you told me how a man and a woman can make a baby. Like how Papa and Mama made me."

Bane swallowed his discomfort at the thought of Melisande having sex with anyone other than himself, as he had imagined so many times in his dreams and fantasies. "Yes, that's right. And that's why 'normal' people think it's inappropriate for a grown man like me to share my bed with a girl. They think that everything is about sex."

Talia remained silent for a long moment, her brows knitting in confusion. "They think we have sex?"

"Well, no, not necessarily. But they think just because—"

"I don't know how to have sex. Do you?"

For once, Bane was thankful for the mask, for he knew that his face had to be beet red. "It—it's not that I don't know how; it's just that…" He cleared his throat. "That's not important right now. What's important is that we are subordinate to your father's rules, and—no matter the reason—he wants you sleeping in your own bed."

But Talia's curiosity continued, "If we had sex, would we make a baby?"

"No…no, Talia. You aren't listening to me—"

"Have you had sex with anyone, Bane?"

"Talia, stop." He pressed a finger against her lips, but his obvious discomfiture amused her, and her lips spread into a smile beneath his urgent touch.

"Have you?"

"Talia, enough. Of course I haven't. You're being foolish."

"Do you want to?"

"What? No!" He shoved back the blanket. "Enough of this nonsense. Go back to your room."

"No," she drew out the word and struggled with him to pull the blanket back over them. She started to giggle again.

"We're not playing a game," he said testily, jerking the blanket from her grasp.

His abruptness surprised her into silence, and she gave up her antics, looking chagrined and almost hurt. Bane sighed in exasperation and smoothed Melisande's blanket.

"Don't be mad, _habibi_," she murmured.

"I'm _not_ mad." He stifled a huff and rolled onto his back. "You're too young to be talking about these things."

Surreptitiously she drew the blanket back over them but did not press closer. She whispered, "I'm sorry."

Bane knew he should again insist she return to her room, but now that he had sufficiently cowed her, he did not want to further sadden her. With a frown, he opened his left arm, inviting her back into his warmth. She responded with a demure smile from beneath long lashes.

"This is the end of it," he rumbled. "Understand? Tonight then no more."

She nodded, her deep blue gaze steady upon him, as if to make sure he truly was not angry, then she snuggled back inside his embrace.

After a quiet moment, his irritation drifted away. After all, how could he blame her for her desire to remain close when he, too, regretted the changes they must make purely for the sake of others? He murmured, "Your father said you and I have different destinies. But whatever your destiny, I want you to find someone who loves you very much, like I loved your mother. Someone you can marry and have a normal life with, have a family."

"But I have a family. You and Papa."

"We're your family, too, yes; but you will have one of your own as well, I hope; if you can find someone worthy of you."

"You're worthy of me. Why don't _we_ get married?"

He could not help but chuckle at her innocence, though his response instantly drew a slight pout from her full lips. "No, little mouse. I am too old for you. You need someone close to your own age…like Akar."

"Akar?" She reared back to better study him, as if to determine whether he was serious or not.

"Yes, I mean he is more your age." Bane smiled. "He wanted to dance with you last month when Passat played for all of us."

"Why didn't he?"

Bane shrugged one shoulder. "He's shy. And no doubt his injuries make him doubly so."

She seemed to consider this. "Could he dance with just one arm?"

"Of course. I'm sure he can do just about anything with the right amount of self-confidence." Then, thinking of her curiosity about the sex act, he almost regretted saying this, for he did not want Talia to naïvely broach the subject of intercourse with poor Akar. The boy could barely summon the nerve talk to Talia about what she desired for supper; surely more intimate subject matter would totally undo the child.

"Do you think I should marry Akar?"

Bane stifled his laughter. "No, _habibati_, I don't think you should be marrying anyone just yet. Marrying is for when you are older; when you are a grown woman, and you know your own mind better. And when you find someone whom you love."

Again she took a moment to absorb all of this before saying, "Are you going to get married, _habibi_?"

He scoffed and gestured to the mask. "What woman would want to marry this?"

She scowled, instantly ready to defend his better qualities, as she no doubt had done to his detractors when he had first arrived here. "That shouldn't matter. I love you with or without your mask."

"That's because you are sweet. But, I assure you, outsiders won't see me the way you do."

"Then they are stupid," she grumped.

"Besides, you are forgetting, we men in the League cannot marry. Our devotion is to the League and no other."

While she was familiar with this code, her innocence would not allow her to subscribe. "I think you should get married and have babies."

He chuckled. "And I think it's time you go to sleep, little mouse, and take your silly dreams with you."

"They aren't silly," she grumbled as she surrendered by closing her eyes.

Bane said nothing more in the hopes of Talia drifting to sleep. He wished he could kiss her cheek one last time and thank her for her kind words. Instead he gently hugged her tighter to his side and closed his own eyes. Within minutes, the soft hiss and quiet crackle from the fireplace serenaded them both to sleep, soothing away the sadness of this being their last night together.


	23. Chapter 23

**Beyond The Shadows**

**Twenty-three**

Bane feared that he might be unable to make the final fifty meters to the monastery door. Every muscle and joint in his body cried out, and the cold made each breath through the mask a chore, his lungs burning. The frigid weather's sting—worsened by the cutting wind—streamed tears from his eyes, instantly chapping the small bit of skin above the mask. The heavy scarf and woolen facemask increased the claustrophobia of the apparatus. The other men in the group trudged just ahead of him—three other apprentices and Xing Lao. Only Lao moved with any sign of energy and endurance; indeed, he walked across the packed snow as effortlessly as he had a week ago when they had first left the monastery, a fact that made Bane both admire and despise him.

At long last, just before he was certain that his joints would finally seize completely, they reached the door. Once inside, sighs of relief from all of the apprentices drew a displeased glance from Lao. Bane wanted to throw the little slave-driving bastard down the mountain. Instead, he focused upon the warmth and relief provided by the anteroom as he used his back and shoulder to close the heavy door behind them. They all swayed upon their feet as if in disbelief that they had made it back, their breathing still labored.

When they started to remove their heavy packs, Lao barked, "No! Carry them to your rooms."

The thought of lugging the packs even one more step was torture enough, but to contemplate the dead weight accompanying them all the way through the monastery and then up the flights of stairs to their rooms drew groans. Of course, this garnered only another look of disgust from their instructor.

Bane caught sight of a figure just beyond the anteroom, seated among the glowing candles in the meditation room. He blinked several times, trying to adjust his eyes from the blinding white of the outside world to the dim black and orange of the adjoining room. Was his vision playing a cruel trick upon him or was that indeed a familiar shape? He peered closer.

"Jin!"

_Whack_! Lao's walking stick slapped against Bane's gut, its pain mainly absorbed by his parka and his brace, but it kept him from barging into the meditation room. Lao gave Bane a severe shake of his head. Temujin had not moved an inch or opened his eyes. Of course. Bane frowned; he should have known better than to disturb anyone meditating, even his long-lost friend. But it was hard to dismiss nearly three months of worry over the Mongol's fate.

Lao scowled and gestured for Bane to continue to the dormitory, then followed him close behind as if to keep his student from doubling back.

The climb up to his room was excruciating, but Bane knew Lao was watching from below to make sure he did not attempt to remove his pack. Just as he reached the level of his room, the door to Talia's room opened, as if she had been expecting him at any moment.

"Bane!" she cried, her face alight with happiness.

"Talia, you are not dismissed!" Sangye called fruitlessly after her, but she was already halfway around the circumference of the catwalk.

Quickly Bane tried to struggle out of the pack before she reached him but succeeded only in freeing one arm before Talia leapt into his awkward embrace. He staggered backward against the frame of his door. If not for that, the cursed pack would have sent them both tumbling.

Talia bestowed rapid-fire kisses to his mask. "I missed you so much! And Jin is back! I couldn't wait to tell you."

"I know, I know," he laughed. "I saw him."

"Did you talk to him?"

"Not yet."

"I haven't either. Sangye wouldn't let me."

When he saw Talia's tutor waiting impatiently in the doorway to her room, arms crossed against his barrel-chest, a mild glower showing his displeasure with his errant student, Bane said, "We'll talk to Jin later. Now go back to your studies before your father sees you out of your room."

"He's with Damien."

Bane tried to hide his distaste at this news; he had grown accustomed to the American's absence. "When did he get back?"

"Yesterday."

With a grunt, Bane took up his pack again. "Go on back to Sangye. I will see you at supper."

Reluctantly Talia obeyed, and he watched her until she returned to her tutor. Before she stepped beyond Sangye, she tossed a final grin back in his direction, warming Bane inside and out. Sangye gave Bane a slight, satisfied nod before following Talia and closing the door. Bane smiled to himself, the pleasure of returning home heightening. Home. He used to think of the pit as his home, but the League and the monastery had successfully assumed that distinction. Once in his room and free of the pack, he felt even better.

Dressed once again in the simple monastic garb of every day, he sprawled on his bed. A fresh supply of opiate crystals surged the drug through the small tubes from the rear canister. He breathed deeply, stared up at the ceiling, then closed his eyes, reflected upon the past week spent in the mountains. Lao had taught them how to climb and how to rappel, though of course Bane had knowledge of both, thanks to his experiences with the prison shaft. But he quickly learned to respect the snow and ice, two elements completely foreign to him and ever changing, not constant like stone. During the week, he—like the other students—suffered his share of slips and falls, saved only by his harness and safety line, moments that sent a surge of terror through him. Yet the fear lasted only a moment, and afterwards he enjoyed the rush of adrenaline that the incidents stirred, and he found himself taking risks that the other students feared to attempt.

Lao had schooled them in survival tactics, from finding fuel for fires on the seemingly barren slopes to keeping extremities free from frostbite. They also honed their skills with a rifle, both on inanimate targets and upon wild game that Lao introduced them to, such as snowcock, tahr, and bharal. Bane learned how to dress and cook what they shot. They killed wolves as well and were taught how to skin them for their thick fur coats; these had been carried back to the monastery with them, along with the extra meat. All would share in the feast tonight, and Bane smiled at the thought of everyone hearing that he had been the best shot among the group. He would tell Akar of how he had thought of the boy and his father when he had killed the first wolf. The more helpless of the creatures, such as tahr, Bane took little pleasure in killing, but when the wolf had come into his sights, he had felt no remorse in pulling the trigger, especially when he thought of Akar spending the rest of his life mutilated.

He was eager to see Temujin, to learn about the Mongol's quest as well as to tell him about all that he had learned since he had left. Surely Temujin's return signified a decision to remain with the League. And though Bane had come to respect and appreciate Lao, he preferred Temujin as his instructor.

Exhaustion claimed Bane before he could leave his bed, and by the time he awoke, Talia was at his door, telling him that he was late for supper.

"Did you behave while I was gone?" he asked as he carried her piggyback down the stairs.

"Of course."

"No doubt only because your father is here," he teased.

She laughed and reached around to cover his eyes.

He stopped. "Are you trying to kill us both?"

"Walk the rest of the way without looking," she challenged.

"You know I can. But if your father sees me doing so with you on my back…"

Talia giggled and lifted her hands, then kissed his neck once. "I missed you so much, _habibi_."

"And I missed you, little mouse." He continued on his way, breathing fully and deeply to draw in the welcome scent of warm food, his stomach growling loud enough for Talia to hear.

When they reached the common room, everyone was already at table, including Temujin. When he turned his gaze to Bane, the Mongol smiled, but the happy expression could not mask the fatigue that hung over the small man like a cloak, his face thinner than Bane remembered, with shadowy lines under his eyes, his shoulders slightly rounded. Temujin sat at the end of the table with the more senior members of the League, including Damien Chase who looked no worse for wear after having been gone two months. Bane took his place at the opposite end, and Talia scampered to her usual chair next to her father who sat at the head of the table. Rā's al Ghūl was not present.

Akar came from the kitchen with freshly baked bread. As he brought the basket to the table, he gave Bane a private smile, obviously pleased to see him. Bane nodded to him.

"Before we begin," Ducard said, raising his voice to dissipate the conversations that had already sprung up around the table, "I'd like to thank Xing Lao and his hunting party for providing us with this bounty. And I understand he was very pleased with his pupils' skills during the expedition."

Lao grumbled something, appearing displeased that Ducard would openly share his satisfaction, no doubt concerned such talk would go to the apprentices' heads. But Ducard only smiled over Lao's Mandarin protest.

"Bane shot a wolf for me," Talia announced. "Jamyang is going to make me a coat from its fur."

Chase raised his wine glass as if in tribute, though his attention only flicked at Bane. "It will no doubt compliment the scarf I brought back for you."

"A scarf?" Talia's expression opened in surprised excitement.

"Yes, I will give it to you after supper."

"And one last thing before we begin," Ducard said after enjoying his daughter's smile, "I want to welcome Temujin back to our ranks after his long absence. And I am pleased to announce that he has decided to rejoin us permanently."

Comments of approval rose from all around, though Bane noticed that Chase's smile toward Temujin seemed less than genuine. Talia, of course, was the most effusive.

"Are you going to be Bane's teacher again?" she pressed.

"Talia," Ducard mildly scolded. "That has not been discussed, nor is this the place to do so."

Sheepishly she rolled her lips together and diverted her attention to Bane, who winked appreciatively at her.

"So," Ducard said, standing with his wine glass in hand. "A toast…to our brother's return." He raised his glass. "To Temujin."

"To Temujin," Bane said along with the others, all lifting their glasses in the direction of the embarrassed Mongol.

Temujin managed to mutter his thanks before protesting, "All this talk is making the food cold, so…" He gestured over the table.

As the men eagerly began to fill their plates, Bane removed his mask. Though he still felt self-conscious about baring his wounds to others, especially while at table, he had begun to grow accustomed to it. When he had first done so, he had consumed his food as quickly as possible to limit exposure, but over time he had allowed himself to slow down. Now, when he lifted his attention from his plate with its specially prepared fare, he found Talia smiling at him. Then she called to Temujin as discreetly as she could through the conversations, and once she had the Mongol's attention, she flicked her eyes toward Bane. As Temujin's focus shifted to him, Bane gave Talia a dissuading shake of his head, his face coloring. Temujin's small grin of satisfaction did nothing to help Bane's discomfiture. Yet, truth be told, he appreciated the admiration and satisfaction on Temujin's face.

After the meal, Bane retreated to his room to irrigate his mouth and don the mask once more. By then Talia was at his door, entering after nothing more than a perfunctory knock as she sometimes did, though he scolded her each time for it.

"Look what Damien gave me!" she cried, hurrying to the bathroom where Bane—bare-chested—was affixing a fresh fentanyl patch to his upper arm. In the doorway she twirled, sending the ends of a scarf wrapped about her neck flying like wings. "Isn't it beautiful? It reminds me of Mama's blanket."

To Bane's surprise, the colors of the woven scarf did indeed match those of the cherished blanket. Its beauty only served to irritate Bane, especially because he had been crocheting a scarf for her. But he hid his reaction, saying, "Yes, it's lovely."

"I'm going to show it to Jin. He came upstairs," she said excitedly. "Let's go talk to him."

"How do you know he wants company? He looks tired. Maybe he could use some peace and quiet."

"No, he wants to see you."

"How do you know?"

"He told me earlier when you were sleeping. He wants to hear about your training."

"Then he will come to find me when he's ready to talk."

"No," she wheedled, hurrying to his bed where she scooped up his shirt then returned with it thrust before her. "Let's go to his room. He has a present for me."

Purposefully slow, Bane took the shirt in hand, his smile crooked behind the mask. "Another present, eh?" He tsked and pulled the shirt over his head. "A present from me, a present from Chase, a present from Jin. I think someone's a bit spoiled."

She grinned and took his hand, urging him toward the door. "C'mon."

"Very well. But let me grab my tunic."

Talia would not let go of his hand until they reached Temujin's door, then she hurried to knock before Bane could. When the Mongol called out to invite them in, Talia beamed up at him in triumph, then led the way inside.

"Jin!" she shouted as if seeing him for the first time since his return, running to him where he stood from his rumpled bed. Obviously he had been about to retire for the night, but the lassitude left his eyes when he caught the girl up in his arms.

"You have grown three inches since I left."

Talia giggled. "Have not."

Temujin set her down and stepped back to study her. "Well then, at least two." He grinned beneath his freshly trimmed, narrow mustache. "And it looks like our young bull has gained some weight. I am pleased to see it." He shook Bane's hand. "And some strength as well, eh?"

"Lao isn't quite the taskmaster that you are, Jin, but he's close."

Temujin laughed. "Don't flatter me, boy. I know a lie when I hear it."

He invited them to sit near the wood-burning stove. There were no extra furnishings in the room, so Bane sat on the coarse rug laid before it. Talia nestled close beside him, reminding him of similar nights in their prison cell when they had enough fuel to light their brazier. Temujin dug through a canvas bag beside his bed, then came to settle cross-legged near Talia. He held out a small leather pouch.

"This is for you," the Mongol said, the light through the stove grate sparking in his dark eyes.

"What is it?" Talia asked as she started to pull the rawhide drawstrings open.

"It used to belong to my mother-in-law. On my way back here, I stopped in the village near where I used to live. I had left a few things there."

"It's an elephant!" Talia drew forth a small ivory carving. "It's beautiful, Jin."

"It will bring you good luck," Temujin said. "It is small, so you can easily carry it in a pocket."

Talia offered the elephant to Bane. The ivory was cool and polished.

"It is also valuable," Temujin continued. "So don't let Bane have it." He winked.

Playfully Talia snatched it back from Bane who laughed. Then she thanked Temujin with another hug and kiss.

"Tell us about your trip, Jin," she urged. "Did you find the man you were looking for?"

"Yes, little one. I did. Thanks to your father."

"What did you do when you found him?" Talia asked, sobering.

Temujin glanced at Bane, hesitated. "I did to him what he did to my wife—I killed him."

Bane saw satisfaction glint in his friend's eyes, but it did not remain for more than a moment.

"How?" Talia pressed.

"How isn't important, especially for someone as young as you to hear, little one," Temujin said. "It is done and over with. Now what is important to me is you two. Tell me all that you've done and learned since I left."

Instantly distracted from Temujin's revenge, Talia launched into a narrative that covered both her own studies and training as well as Bane's, allowing Bane little chance to get a word in. He did not mind, however, for he—like Temujin—was feeling the effects of his own recent journey through the mountains, and he knew he would not stay awake long.

"So," Temujin said at the end of Talia's tale, "Bane has been behaving himself, it would seem."

Bane frowned, his fingers twitching in his lap. "I'm sorry about what happened before you left. I didn't mean to dishonor you. I didn't realize—"

Temujin grunted. "We all make mistakes, my friend. That is how we learn."

"I was afraid you wouldn't come back because of it."

"Yes, I feared that you might feel responsible. But, as you can see, I _have_ come back." Temujin smiled warmly at Talia who still had the ivory elephant in hand, turning it over and over.

"What made you decide to return?" Bane asked.

Temujin's smile drifted away, and though he still looked at Talia, a distant mist briefly clouded his eyes. "After I accomplished what I needed to do, I went back to my old village, as I told you. I spent two weeks there. I thought perhaps I would want to start over there, maybe reclaim who I once was before those men came down from the mountains and took everything from me." He gave a quiet sigh, and his gaze cleared. "But I realized that I can never go back. Before, I had family there, friends. But it is not the same and can never be the same. That is the way of things." His smile returned, though now his fatigue seemed even greater. "Like you, Bane, I realized the League is my family now. It is who and what I am. It is all that I am good at."

Affected by the man's somber mood, Talia quietly asked, "Are you going to be Bane's teacher again?"

"I would never presume to reinsert myself after these months. Bane is no doubt used to Lao's ways—"

"I would gladly work with you again," Bane hastened to assure. "I mean, if you would have me. Considering what happened, though, I wouldn't blame you if you preferred not to."

"Lao is an excellent teacher. Better than me. He has far more experience."

Bane frowned. "Experience, yes, but…you…you understand me better." He hesitated and tried to infuse humor to break Temujin's resolve, "And you don't carry a Yantok."

Temujin could not conceal his amusement, especially when Talia tried to stifle a giggle behind the ivory elephant.

"Sure, it's funny to you," Bane teased her. "But you're not the one with lumps and bruises all over your body."

"It's true," Talia said to Temujin. "Take off your shirt and show him, Bane."

Temujin held up his hands. "There's no need for you to disrobe on my account. It just so happens that Lao came to me today. It seems he is weary of trying to beat sense into you and begged me to take you off his hands before he breaks his treasured Yantok."

Bane stared at him, for a moment fooled by his friend's serious expression. But then a sly smile spread across Temujin's face.

"So you made me grovel for nothing," Bane said.

The Mongol chuckled. "Consider it a lesson in humility, my young bull. The first of many to come."


End file.
